Remembering The One
by gracebrisbane
Summary: A rebel attack leaves America an amnesiac. She can't remember anything about the past six years, but most importantly, she can't remember the Selection. Or Maxon. America struggles to understand her new life as Maxon tries to rebuild their relationship. Maxmerica, multi-chapter. Takes place AFTER The One, so may contain spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

_I'm running fast, running away from the rebels. I know they're behind me. I can hear Maxon screaming my name. I keep running down the hall, towards the hidden door where I know I'll be safe. But just as I reach the door, a shot of pain bursts through my shoulder. I cry out and fall forward, blacking out as my head collides with the steel door in front of me._

* * *

I wake up to a pair of unfamiliar brown eyes. I blink a few times, yawn, and then try to sit up. The mysterious pair of eyes follows me, lending a hand as I shift to a sitting position. "America?" he whispers, his voice foreign to me. "America? Are you okay?"

My head pounds and I place a hand gingerly to my forehead. I can feel a large bump forming there and wonder what happened. I look around and notice I'm in a hospital-like room. White, sterile walls. Various machinery. An IV is pinned into my arm. "I'm . . . I'm fine," I whisper. I look over at the mysterious boy and hold back a scream.

"What is it?" he replies, grasping at my shoulders to calm me down. I only get more frantic at his touch, alarmed at the feel of his hands against me. "America, stop screaming, please, tell me what's wrong," he pleads. I find softness in his eyes, worry in the creases of his forehead.

"What . . . what are you doing here?" I ask him, scooting away in horror. I study the prince with hesitancy. He's dressed in a simple gray suit, though his shirt is wrinkled. His hair is tousled, a golden mess of curls. And his chocolate eyes are blinding me with sympathy. And confusion.

A lot of confusion.

He lets out a soft laugh, one of disbelief. "What am I doing here? Ames, why wouldn't I be here? I mean, yes I have some meetings to attend, but you were hurt and I think that's a bit more impor-"

"But you're the prince! You're Prince Maxon . . . And you're here with me because I'm _hurt_?"

Prince Maxon's eyes fill with shock and then understanding. His eyes drop as realization sets in. What he's realizing, I don't know. But he's definitely coming to some sort of conclusion. "America," he whispers, placing a gentle hand on my cheek. I shrug it off, uncomforted by his touch. "Do you . . . do you not know who I am?"

"Of course I know who you are!" I exclaim, almost laughing. "You're the freaking prince of Illéa!"

"King, actually," he mumbles, his eyes disconnected, his voice cracking. "But that's not what I meant. Do you . . do you not know who I am in relation to _you?" _

I practically laugh. What could the prince have to do with me? "Umm . . no? Why would I be related to you. You're the Prince and I'm a Five," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Oh, God," he mumbles, standing up and pacing the room. I watch him nervously, unsure of what he's thinking. Did I say something wrong? What am I missing here? "Shit, shit, _shit," _he mutters, running his hands through his hair. I watch him speechlessly, trying to understand what's going on. The Prince was at my bedside, waiting for me to wake up, and now he's acting as if I should know who he is. _  
_

And then the strangest thing happens.

He rushes back to me, holds my face in his hands and kisses me on the lips. I gasp at the feel of his warm lips against mine, shocked by the way his hands hold me like they know me. But I feel some hint of recognition and I kiss back automatically -that is until one thought breaks through my mind: Aspen.

I pull away in disgust and slap the Prince. He recoils, clutching his red cheek, but doesn't seem surprised at my assault. I expect guards to come rushing in to punish me, but no one comes. The Prince just stares at me in horror, awe, worry and, most of all, sadness. Loss. "You may be the Prince, but that doesn't give you the right to just kiss any girl you want. I happen to have a boyfriend, _your highness," _I say, my voice dripping sarcasm. The Prince stays silent. He just stares at me in complete amazement. "What?" I ask him, annoyed by his glaring at me.

He shakes his head and rushes out the door. I call after him, wanting answers, but he ignores them. I fall back against the pillow and sigh. From outside I can hear the frantic words of the Prince as he talks to somebody. Or a few people. I can hear some unfamiliar voices mixed in with some recognizable ones. Is that my mother's voice? And is that . . . is that Aspen I hear?

A few seconds later they all enter the room - Prince Maxon, what appears to be a doctor, a guard, my mother and Aspen. His face is full of worry, but there's something different about him. He looks older. Stronger. And he's dressed differently.

"Aspen!" I cry out, reaching out to him, desperately wanting to kiss him, to wipe away the taste of the Prince and replace it with my boyfriend's. But rather than kiss me, he simply hugs me, squeezing me like . . . like a friend. "God, Mer, are you okay? I was so worried about you," he says, looking into my eyes with concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say, aching to kiss him. But the Prince is still staring at me, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. I decide that I'll have plenty of alone time with Aspen. "I'm just very . . . confused."

"You hurt yourself pretty bad, honey," my mother said, joining me on the opposite side of my bed. She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it gently. She looks older, too. Are those grey hairs? No, they couldn't be. My mother's too young for that. "There was an attack and you were shot an-"

"I was shot?" I say, horrified. What kind of attack? Why would anybody hurt a useless Five? "Where? I don't feel it."

"You're on a lot of pain medication, Que- Ms. Singer," the doctor answered. "But the bullet grazed your left shoulder. There's still a scar but it should be healed in a few weeks." I look over to my shoulder and finally take note of the bandage covering a small patch of skin. I touch it and feel nothing - it's almost numb. I nod in appreciation for the doctor.

"America, darling," my mother said, stealing my attention away from the wound. "After you were shot, you fell against a steel door. You hit your head really badly."

"I noticed."

"And we think it may have, um, caused some problems," my mother says, looking at the doctor for support.

"What do you mean?" My head hurts, of course, but I can't think of anything that could be seriously wrong. Other then the crazy Prince that's standing just a few feet away from me, everything is fine. "What kind of problems?"

The doctor gives a sharp look to Prince Maxon, who's been silent throughout this whole conversation. He gave a painful nod - why, I don't know - and the doctor locked his eyes with me. My mother squeezed my right hand. Aspen kissed my left one. Maxon looked away. "I'm afraid you're suffering from amnesia, Ms. Singer."

"Amnesia?" I look around for confirmation. Aspen nods solemnly, my mom fights back tears, and Maxon is stoic. "How . . . how bad?

"I'm not sure," the doctor replies. "At least five years, maybe more."

"_Five years?" _I gasp, horrified. That explains why Aspen looks older, as well as my mother. But that doesn't explain why the Prince is here. "But . . I don't . . how do-"

"I know it's a lot to take in, honey," my mother says, stroking my hand with her thumb. "But it will be alright."

"Within a few months, your memories should return. I've examined your head in depth and there's no permanent damage. The amnesia is just a side effect from the head trauma. I recommend that you rest as much as possible. Being around your family will help bring memories back. It might help if you show her some videos of the Selection, as well, my King." The doctor whispered the last part to Maxon and I looked at Aspen for an explanation. He just bit his lip and averted his eyes.

"Alright," Maxon replied, his voice shaky. "Thank you, Doctor. We'll let her rest. You're dismissed." The doctor bowed and quickly left the room. "Officer Lee, if you would please escort Mrs. Singer back to the guest room," he said, nodding to the guard who waited silently in the corner. My mother rose, kissed my forehead, and promised to visit me later. She then followed the guard out of the room, leaving me alone with Aspen and Maxon.

"Aspen, why don't you take America back to her room? I need to . . . attend a meeting," Maxon said, though I could tell there was a hidden message in his eyes. Aspen seemed to understand what the prince was trying to say, and he nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty." Aspen stood up and extended a hand to me. I took it gratefully and stood up. I was shaky at first, but Aspen steadied me, placing an arm around my waist.

We walked in silence down the large corridor. I realized belatedly that we were in the palace. Why, I don't know. Maybe I was here for a concert when I was attacked? Whatever the reasoning is, I can't help but be in awe. The palace is absolutely beautiful, a stunning piece of architecture. I gawk at it as Aspen directs me towards a large hallway. Gigantic doors lined in gold and decorated with brilliant designs are at the end of the hall.

"Is this . . . " I start, trying to recall the image from my memory. I know I've seen these doors before in my textbooks at school. "Is this the King's suite?"

"Yes," Aspen said, not giving away anything.

"But why are you taking me here?"

"Because, America," he says, placing his hands gently on my shoulders, and looking into my eyes. His face is etched with worry and pain, but most of all, sympathy. As if he pities me for being in this situation. "You're the Queen."


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow I got so many reviews/favorites overnight I just had to post another chapter! I'm glad you guys like it so far. For those of you that don't know, I have another story (Sweeping the Competition) that is Maxmerica, so check that out if you want! Here's Ch. 2! **

"The _Queen! _Ha, sure, and you're a famous rockstar," I laugh, nudging him playfully as he opens the door. "Stop joking with me, Aspen. Just because I have a little head injury doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

"America, I'm serious," Aspen says, closing the door behind me. His face is blank, his eyes empty and vacant. He looks like he's in pain.

I sigh, choosing to ignore him. Instead, I look around at the magnificent bedroom. There are tapestries hanging on the walls, golden-framed paintings dispersed everywhere, elegant furniture filling the space. Everything is in warm, cozy tones, with splashes of gold here and there. The bed is massive, with soft blankets piled atop of each other, ending in a beautiful wooden headboard. The room is breathtaking. "Despite the fact that we probably shouldn't be here," I say, turning around to look back at Aspen, who remains by the door, "This is incredible." I run my hand down the soft covers and smile at the soft feel of the fabric beneath my fingertips. "No, but seriously, we should go. If Queen Amberly and King Clarkson walk in on us, we'll get our heads cut off."

"America, listen to me," Aspen says, rushing over to me and grabbing me by the shoulders. His aggressiveness shocks me, but I don't shake him away. There's something terrifyingly truthful about the look in his eyes that holds me in place. "This isn't a joke. Amberly and Clarkson . . . they're dead, America. They died five years ago. Maxon is the King, now. And you . . " he trails off as I look past him at the wall of photos framed behind him. I push him aside and step closer to the wall, studying the various Polaroids with hesitancy.

There are about twenty different pictures. I'm there, in those pictures, in a wedding dress. Holding a baby. Laughing with a girl I don't know. Squeezing May. I'm in half of these pictures, but this America is a stranger. I don't know the girl in these photos.

And then there are some of me with _Maxon. _Pictures of me and the goddamn Prince. We're laughing together, smiling at each other, dancing in a ballroom. He's holding a baby girl in his arms. He's sitting in the gardens. He's attempting to play the violin. He's tugging his ear across the dinner table. He's wearing a crown.

And so am I.

I'm wearing the Queen's crown.

Oh, god.

Unable to process this all, I stumble backwards, anxious to get away. I fall backwards in my haste and Aspen catches me. He guides me wordlessly over to the bed, where he sets me down. He kneels down in front of me, clasping my hands. "Aspen . . . please tell me this is a dream," I murmur, afraid to meet his eyes.

"I know this is hard, Mer, but you just have to listen. A lot has happened that you've forgotten. It's a lot to take in, but you need to understand it. You need to understand your life, okay?" His voice is soft and gentle, comforting and familiar. He calms me down immediately, almost making me forget about the strange pictures on the wall. "Would you like me to explain it, or would you rather have Maxon do it? Or your mother?"

The way he says _Maxon _so easily shocks me. Like he's said that name a million times. Maybe he has. Maybe _I _have.

"You," I whisper immediately. Despite the pictures that prove my relationship with Maxon, I'm afraid to see him. I don't know who he is, what he's like, what he thinks of me. I'm not ready to talk to him yet.

"Alright," he says, squeezing my hands. I squeeze back, fighting to hold back tears as Aspen starts to explain my life story. "I'm assuming your memory goes back to when we were dating? Well, the Selection was coming up and we got into a fight. We broke up, Mer. It was stupid but we did it anyway. And your mom made you enter the selection, you know, for money and such. No one thought you'd get picked. Hell, you didn't even want to enter. You only did it for your family. But then . . you did, Mer. You were Selected and off you went to the palace. And Maxon . . . Maxon fell in love with you, right from the start. You didn't like him at first, Mer, but he grew on you," Aspen explains. He continues, talking about how I was almost eliminated multiple times. He tells me about the alliance I formed with Maxon at the start of the competition. He talks about how some of the other girls became my friends—how the girl in one of the pictures, Marlee, is my closest friend. He says he was drafted and sent to the palace. He talks about how we hid our relationship from Maxon, but how he eventually found out. He speaks of the rebel attack in which the King and Queen were killed. He shares how he fell in love with my maid, Lucy, and ended up marrying her. And he tells me about Maxon picking me, choosing me as The One. Marrying me and naming me Queen.

When he finishes, I am crying. Mourning the life I don't remember, sobbing for the friends I don't know, weeping for the boy I don't love.

"Mer . . . " he whispers, taking my face in his hands and wiping the tears away. "You'll be okay. I know this is difficult, but it will come back eventually. The doctor said you'll start to remember, soon. It will be a slow process, but ultimately everything will be alright. So, please don't cry, Mer."

"Especially since I'm terrible with crying girls," a voice says from behind. I turned around and see Maxon leaning against the door, a tender smile on his face. "I think I'll take it from here, Officer Leger."

"I'm down the hall if you need me, Mer," Aspen says, kissing my forehead. He stands up, bows quickly, and exits the room, leaving me alone with Maxon.

Maxon, the King

Maxon, my husband.


	3. Chapter 3

We remain silent for a while, stealing glances at each other, searching our minds for words to say. What do you say the boy, the prince, the husband you don't remember?

He shuts the door, leaving us completely alone, and crosses over to me. I scoot over slightly to let him sit down beside me, which he does. He places a hand gingerly on my shoulder but I shake it off. He looks hurt, betrayed. I belatedly realize how all of this must be effecting him. It'd be like if Aspen forgot who I was. How would I feel if he wouldn't let me touch him? Probably pretty terrible. I should go easier on him. It's not his fault.

"Look, America, I-" he starts, but his voice catches in his throat. He stops, takes a few deep breaths, and continues. "I know that you don't know who I am, or what I'm like, or anything about me, really, aside from the fact that I'm the Prince-"

"King," I interrupt. "Aspen said that you're the King, now, correct?" He looks shocked that I know this, but nods in agreement. "My condolences, by the way," I add, though I know he's not mourning anymore.

"Thank you," he nods. "Anyways, Ames, I know that you don't really know me, but I . . . I know _you. _And I love you, America. Even if you don't remember it, you love me, too. And I want you to know that . . . that even if you don't get your memories back, I'll always love you. Even if you erase me from your mind, I'll still love you, America." His breathing has become labored. I can sense that he's about to start crying, but I don't know how to comfort him. What do you do when a stranger starts crying after declaring their love for you? "And I'm here for you, dear. I'm here to help you get through this in anyway possible. If you want to go back home and live with your mom for a while, that's fine. If you want to leave the palace forever . . okay. But if you want to stay here, and I hope that you do, I will do everything in my power to make this better for you." He takes a long deep breath and takes my hands in his. I don't fight his hold, though. There's something painfully honest about the gesture, and something inside me aches for him. "I won't rush this, America. I won't force you to love me or even like me. God knows you hated me when we first met," he chuckles. "But I do want to help, Ames. So, please, let me help."

His eyes lock with mine and I can't help but hold his gaze. His eyes are wondrous, full of so much love and sympathy, so much beauty and care. I find myself getting lost in them as he lets out a small smile, a tear escaping from his eyes. "So," he says after a moment, stroking my hands mindlessly with his thumbs. "What do you think?"

"I . . . I don't know, Maxon," I whisper, pulling my hands away and knotting them in my lap. "I want to believe everything you said, I really do. I wish I could easily accept that _this _is my life. But the truth is, it's hard. I'm missing six years, Maxon. The last thing I remember is being 16 and stupidly in love with Aspen. I can't imagine loving another guy, especially the _king, _let alone marrying one. I just . . . I need time," I admit, locking eyes with him again.

"Alright," he responds. His tone is slightly distant, his mind in a different place. It pains me to see him so distraught, so uncomfortable because of me. "Will you at least stay here? So that we could . . you know, uh, get to know each other? Well, you could get to know me, since I already know you. And I could remind you of things from the past, that we, uh, did together and we c-" I burst out laughing at his nervous rambling, unable to hold my giggling. "What's so funny?" he asks, offended.

"I'm sorry, I just, I didn't imagine the King of Illéa would have so much trouble talking to girls," I chuckle. A bright smile lights up his face and I can't help but find him handsome when he smiles like that.

He rolls his eyes. "I've always been a complete mess when it comes to girls. You were the first one to show me that, right before you kneed me in the thigh," he laughs.

"I did _what?" _I ask, stunned.

He shakes his head, laughing as he remembers. "We were taking a walk together. You didn't really want to, but you lost this bet, so you _had _to do it. And we were just talking, getting to know each other. I said something that you took the wrong way and you kneed me."

"What exactly did you say?" I ask, now slightly interested. I don't exactly have the best reputation, but I can't imagine I would knee the freaking Prince of Illéa after just meeting him.

"I said something about, um, telling you what I wanted from you," Maxon blushed.

"Oh," I say, understanding how that could have come off as a bit creepy.

"I was very offended, I'll have you know," he said, laughing. I couldn't help but laugh with him. "I mean, I'm a gentleman. The idea that you thought I would do such a thing hurt me terribly.

"Well, you have my deepest apologies," I smile. "Had I known I wo-" A knock on the door interrupts me. Maxon calls for whoever it is to enter.

"Excuse me, Your Majesties?" a guard says, bowing deeply. "The kids are ready for bed. If this isn't the right time, I'll have Lady Marlee han-"

"There's no need for that, Officer Smith. I'll be there in a few moments. Thank you," Maxon nodded and the guard was gone.

I look at him hesitantly, then back at the pictures on the wall. I had been to astonished by everything else that I hadn't really thought of me holding a baby as a strange thing. But now . .

Oh, god.

"Maxon," I whisper, standing up and grabbing his wrist. "Do I - do you - do _we-"_

"Yes," he says shyly, a bit embarrassed. "I would have told you sooner, but there was so much going on and I wasn't sure it would be the right time." I swallow hard as my eyes settle on the picture of me holding a baby once again. I can't see much of the child in the picture, just some tiny fingers and a chubby face. Something catches in my throat, twists in my stomach, and I stumble backwards. Maxon catches me, his arms sturdy and comforting around my waist. He sets me back down on the bed. "America, I'm so, so sorry you had to find out like this. I didn't know . . I thought that I could wait . . "

"It's alright," I say, standing up. "It's better that I know now." I stand up and take a deep breath, heading for the door. Maxon catches my wrist and turns me around.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Maxon says, completely bewildered.

I pull my wrist away and give him a frustrated look. "I'm going to see my kid."

"Plural," Maxon sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Huh?" I ask. How I ever fell for this confusing, complicated boy, I don't know. Let's hope he's more attractive when I don't have a head injury.

"Kid_s. _Plural. We have two kids," he says. I take a sharp breath, but nod. I was only expecting one, but I'm glad he warned me before I went to see them. That would have been much more traumatizing. "A baby boy, Shal, after your father, and a three-year-old girl, Celeste."

"Celeste?" I say, making a face. "Why would I name my daughter _Celeste?" _

To my surprise, Maxon laughs at that. But then a look of sorrow passes over his face, and I instantly regret my question. "Celeste was one of the girls in the Selection. You hated her at first, but she eventually became your close friend." Maxon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "She was killed in a rebel attack."

"Oh," I say, swallowing hard. I had not expected that as an answer.

"You wanted to honor her when our daughter was born," Maxon says, quickly composing himself. He immediately changes the subject. "Now, if you . . if you want to see them, you have to be careful."

"What do you mean? Do you think I'm going to hurt them or something?" I ask, slightly offended. "I may not remember them, but do you really think I go around terrorizing kids in my daily life or something?"

"No, America," Maxon says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "They don't . . they're too young to understand. I don't want them to think that . . . to know that . . "

"That I don't remember who they are?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Maxon nods tentatively. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "It's hard for me to say that."

"I understand." And I do. The more I think about it, the more sympathy I have for Maxon. I may be oblivious in my scenario, but at least I'm not hurting. Maxon seems to be in constant pain. Even looking at me seems to hurt him.

"Just try not to say too much, okay? Or act too confused. Just play the role, okay? They just thought you were sick for a few days, that's all," Maxon explains, opening the door.

"Got it," I smile confidently, though I'm crumbling inside. I'm about to meet my _kids, _and Maxon's acting as if it's as easy as playing a role. But I wear a fake smile and walk through the door. Maxon leads me to the nursery.


	4. Chapter 4

The nursery is painted bright yellow, with splashes of royal purple here and there. The ceiling is covered in stars and the lights are dimmed. It's a lovely room, really. I would have stopped to admire it had I not been attacked by a little, red-headed girl.

"Mama!" the girl - Celeste - cries, latching herself on my leg. I look at Maxon for support, but he seems unsure of what to do either, and just shrugs. I take a deep breath and bend down, slipping my arms around her. "Are you feeling better?" Her voice was angelic and I found myself smiling unconsciously.

"Yes," I answer, shyly, perching her awkwardly on my hip. It's not like I've never held a kid before - I held Gerad and May all the time when they were little. But the idea that this stranger is my daughter makes me scared. "I'm feeling much better . . . honey," I tack on at the end, realizing moms always use pet names like _honey _and _sweetheart. _

Maxon giggles at that but I shoot him a death glare and he shuts up. "Why are you acting so weird?" Celeste asks, staring at me with startlingly brown eyes, just like Maxon's.

"Umm . . " I start, but don't know where to go. Apparently three-year-olds are like lie detectors.

"She's just sleepy, Cellie," Maxon says, taking his - my, _our - _daughter from my arms and carrying her to her tiny bed in the corner. "You know how your mommy gets when she's sleepy, right?" Maxon makes a funny face and Celeste bursts out in laughter.

"Yeah!" Celeste cheers, jumping on her bed. "Mommy can be very weird when she's tired," she laughs, her voice musical and lovely. I smile at her and she giggles. Now that I'm getting a good look at her, she looks nothing like me, really. She has Maxon's face, easily. The only thing that even _resembles _me is her bright red hair, which is loose and wild and crazy.

"Yes she can," Maxon agrees, winking over at me. "But you have to go to sleep, too, Cellie, okay? You have a big day tomorrow."

"I know," Celeste frowns, sitting back down as Maxon tucks her under the covers. I give Maxon a look, wondering what tomorrow is, but he mouths that he'll tell me later.

"Okay, well good nig-"

"Wait!" Celeste says as Maxon moves to the crib, which I hadn't even noticed until now. "Mommy didn't braid my hair yet."

"What?" I ask, looking to Maxon for answers. He purses his lips and comes over to me, his forehead creased with worry.

"Every night you braid Celeste's hair," Maxon whispers so she won't hear. "She won't sleep if her hair's down."

"Why?" I wonder.

"Because you've been doing it since she was born, Ames," Maxon sighs, pressing a finger to his forehead. "She's just . . she's used to it. It's habit. So if . . . if you could braid her hair, that'd be great."

"Oh," I murmur, shocked by Maxon's somewhat angry tone. "Yeah, sure." I walk over to the little girl and sit down behind her on the bed. She instantly hops in my lap, which makes me smile.

"Mommy, can you do two?" she asks, tilting her head to look at me from behind.

"Sure," I smile, awkwardly taking her hair in my hands. I split her hair down the middle, realizing instantly that her hair is ridiculously soft. It feels good to run my fingers through her hair, relaxing almost. I start to realize why I must've done this since she was little. It must have comforted both me _and _her. By the time I'm finished, I'm almost sad it's over.

Celeste shakes her head so that the pigtails go flying in my face, two little braids whacking me in the nose. I laugh and scoot out of the way as she continues to play with the braids. "Thanks, mama!" Celeste cheers, slipping in under the blankets.

I pull them up to her chin and, for some reason I can't explain, kiss her gently on the forehead. She murmurs a goodnight, her eyes already heavy, and I step away from her bed, shocked with myself.

"Not too bad," Maxon whispers, tapping me on the shoulder. I jump at his touch but quickly cover it up, embarrassed that he makes me so jittery. "She didn't notice a thing."

"Great," I nod, taking a deep breath. Maxon tilts his head towards the crib on the opposite side of the room. Maxon leans over the edge and gestures for me to do the same. Below, resting in his tiny little bed, is the cutest thing I've ever seen. A chubby baby boy is laying down, dressed in a dark blue onesie with music notes on it. "I'm guessing I picked out that outfit, huh?" I whisper, realizing that the boy, Shal, is already asleep.

"Indeed you did, dear," Maxon smiles. He reaches his hands into the crib and lifts Shal up into his arms. The baby doesn't even twitch. "He's the best baby I've ever seen. Always sleeps through the night. Unlike Celeste, who couldn't sleep for more than five minutes." I look at him and admire his features. He looks a lot more like me than Celeste did. He has a small tuft of blonde hair, his features are soft like mine, and I know from one of the pictures that his eyes are the same icy blue as mine. He's so beautiful I could cry. Maxon notices my stunned expression and holds out his arms. "Would you like to . . ."

"Yes," I nod, unable to form a better sentence. Maxon passes Shal into my arms and I hold him close to my chest. He's warm and soft, comforting and familiar against my chest. I hug him tightly and close my eyes, listening to the sound of his small little breaths against my neck. He's so little, so perfect and innocent, it makes me want to cry. The thought that this baby . . . this little boy is _mine _overwhelms me. I hand him back to Maxon. "I . . . I can't ri. . . I have to go," I choke out, racing out of the nursery, not even bothering to whisper for Celeste's sake.

I run down the hall, trying to find my way back, but I don't know the palace at all. Some of the guards call after me, asking me questions, but I don't listen. I just run.

I search through all the corridors until I finally catch site of green down the hall. I run towards the doors that must lead to the garden, anxious to get some air. The guards continue to chase me, blocking my path, but I fight them off. I feel bad as I elbow one in the nose, but my desire to get away is overpowering. When I burst through the doors into the cool, refreshing air of the garden, I sink to my knees and press my face into the grass.

I hear voices inside, the guards talking, people panicking and asking questions. I tune them out, taking in the smell of the grass, the feel of the dirt in my fingernails as I claw at the ground. I try to forget about all I've forgotten and just breathe for a moment. And for the first time since I woke up, I realize I'm absolutely terrified.

* * *

"Mer? America, come on, it's me," someone is saying. I groan, unable to understand what's going on. I feel something squishy beneath me and wonder where I am. The air is cold around me and my vision is black. "Mer, _please." _There's a soft hand on my back and I recognize his touch.

Aspen.

His hands guide me into a seated position and his arms snake their way around me, gathering me up in his hold. "Mer, are you okay? How do you feel?" he asks, his tone gentle and reassuring. I smile up at him and his familiar face.

"Aspen . . " I breathe, forgetting for a moment that we're not together. "I'm . . . I'm alright. " I look around and realize I'm in the garden. Dirt is covering my clothes and my hair is in a terrible knot. I touch my face and find my eyes puffy, the remnants of tears sticky on my face.

"Mer, what happened?" Aspen asks, placing a gentle hand on my cheek. "The King said you ran out of the nursery and the guards found you here."

"I couldn't do it, Aspen," I sob, pressing my head into his chest. "I'm not strong enough for this. I thought . . I thought I could pretend that everything was okay, but I can't. I have _kids, _Aspen. And I don't know a thing about them. Seeing there faces . . . there was no spark, no rush of joy, no _nothing. _ Shouldn't I feel something even if I don't remember them?"

"America . . ."

"Do you know how horrible it feels to look at someone and have no idea who they are, despite how much they seem to know you? Do you understand that?" I cry. I realize I'm screaming at him, though he did nothing wrong. But I have to get this out. I have to say it. "I looked at this little girl and didn't have the slightest idea of who she was. How does a _mother _forget their own goddamn kids? Can you answer that, Aspen? Because I sure as hell have no idea."

"Let's get you inside," Aspen says, standing up and taking me with him. I hate being carried, but I'm too tired and too weak to do anything about it. "Officer Jenkins, could you please tell the Queen's maids to prepare a bath for her, as well as the bed. Officer Atkins, please get Mrs. Singer here immediately," Aspen calls to some of the other guards. "Oh, and will somebody _please _tell Lucy what's going on!"

Aspen carries me inside and sets me down on a bench. He stays beside me, letting me lean against him for support. I see Maxon pacing worriedly a few feet away. When he notices us, he comes rushing over. "America!" he cries. He leans in as if to kiss me and then thinks better of it. He awkwardly pulls away and pushes his hands behind his back. "Are you alright, my dear? I'm sorry about that. I should have known it would've been too much. I didn't even imagine how hard it m-"

"It's alright," I mumble, placing a hand on his knee, stopping his worried rambling. "It's not your fault. I overreacted."

"No, Ames, you didn't," Maxon says, kneeling down in front of me. He doesn't seem to care that I'm laying on Aspen at the moment; his eyes are focused only on me. "You acted how any normal person would act. This whole day I haven't even thought about what you must be feeling. I didn't realize that there could be a limit on how much you could learn in a day. I thought that telling you everything as soon as possible would be best - I didn't realize it would overwhelm you. And I'm very sorry, America. I never wanted to hurt you." Maxon chokes on the last words and he coughs to cover it up. Aspen pretends not to notice. "I can't stand to see you like this, Ames. I just . . I want to help you."

"I know that," I nod, sitting up. "Thank you. I just think we need to slow down a bit. This is all just too much for one day."

"We can do that," Maxon agrees, squeezing my hand gently. I squeeze it back, though I don't know why.

"Your Majesty, I've already arranged for the Queen's mother to come, as well as her maids to prepare a bath. Is there anything else you recommend?"

"No, thank you, Officer Leger," Maxon nods gratefully. Despite the fact that Aspen told me he and Maxon had become close friends over the years, they still use formal titles with each other. The idea makes me curious, but I don't question it now. "I think it's best if her mother stays in the palace for a few days. Her and May, maybe. The two of them can help take care of America."

"My sister?" I ask, excited at the idea of seeing May, even if it means that she'll be playing nurse with me.

"Yes," Maxon nods. "As much as I'd love to be with you, America, I think I'm making matters worse. I talked to the doctor and he agrees that being around people you remember would be most helpful."

"Alright," I agree.

Maxon doesn't seem to thrilled by his own idea - Aspen told me that Maxon can't bear to be away from me . . . ever - but he seems to be hanging in. Putting on a brave face for me, perhaps. "Alright. Let's get you to bed, Ames."

"Not with-" I start, then stop. That's awkward. Yes, I want to go to bed, but at the same time not if it means sleeping next to Maxon. I like him enough - he seems kind and generous, and definitely head over heels for me - but sharing a bed with him will only increase my anxiety.

"No, dear," he laughs. "You can sleep in the Queen's chambers until you're ready, alright? I'll have your mother and sister sent there when they arrive."

"Okay," I nod.

"Officer Leger, if you would please escort the Queen back to her room that'd be wonderful. And when you're finished, I think we should talk," Maxon says. He gives Aspen a look that has a hidden message. Aspen seems to understand just what he's saying and nods.

"Yes, sir," he says.

"Goodnight, America," Maxon says, bowing down in front of me and kissing my hand gently. I shiver.

"Goodnight," I say, stunned as the King walks away.

Aspen lifts me up and carries me to my room.


	5. Chapter 5

I awake to the feel of my mother's hand stroking my hair. Her hands are smooth and soft on my skin, calming and assuring.

"Mmm . . ." I murmur, rolling over. "Mom? Is that you?" I open my eyes and blink away the sleep. My mom's leaning over me, a halo of red surrounding her pale, angel-like face.

"Good morning, honey," she smiles. "How did you sleep?"

"Okay," I sigh, sitting up. "When did you get here?" I wonder, remembering that Aspen sent for her last night.

"Last night," she smiles. "But Mary said you fell asleep as soon as you hit your pillow."

"Mary?" I ask, but then remember the kind maid that had helped me get ready for bed last night. She acted sad around me, and I knew she must be mourning my lost memories, but seemed kind nonetheless. "Oh, right. Yeah . . I was exhausted."

"How are you feeling, America?" my mother asked, stroking my hand gently. I relish at the familiarity of her touch.

"Alright," I admit. "I'm just . . . overwhelmed. I feel like there's still so much I don't know even though I learned _too _much yesterday. And it's all so terrible. I feel so guilty, looking at these people that I should remember but don't. Even the way the guards look at me is mournful, like I died or something. Did I know everyone?"

"Yes, you did," she says with a laugh. "America, the people of Illéa love you. I don't think they've ever loved their rulers more. You brought so much hope and change and _life _to the country; everyone is so grateful to you. The staff at the palace practically worships you. You know all the maids' names, all of the guards. Everyone. You truly are a wonderful queen." The look of pride on my mother's face makes me want to melt. I know that she's always wanted this - fame, a higher caste, a nice, social status - but I can see that she's also truly proud of _me, _not just for being the Queen but for being a good person.

"Really? They like me?"

"America," she smiles, taking my hands. "The adore you."

I smile at the thought of the whole country on my side. Do they like Maxon as well? What changes have I made? Do I deal with _politics? _The idea makes me cringe.

"You know what?" my mother says, standing up and heading to the door. "I think I know _just _what you need!"

"And that would be . . . " My mother's ideas are usually not the best.

"I think I'll have Mary bring us some breakfast and then we can watch some old recordings of the Report, to help refresh your memory," she smiles, as if this is the best idea in the world.

"Oh, god, no," I say, dismissing the idea. "I don't want to have to watch myself. That's . . . that's just weird."

"America," my mother says, pushing her hair back. "The doctor thinks it will help. And I think it's a good idea. That way, instead of us just _telling _you about your life for the past 6 years, you can _see _it. Doesn't that sound nice?"

I bite my lip, contemplating the idea. On one hand, I couldn't bare to watch myself on TV. I'll just criticize everything I do, laugh at all my mistakes. But, then again, this could help me see how this all started. It would fill in a lot of the blanks. "Fine, I'll do it."

"Great!" my mother cheers. "I'll be right back. I'll fetch Mary and then see if May wants to join us." She leaves the room and I stand up to stretch. I realize I'm wearing a night gown and head to my closet to change. I expect it to be full of various gowns but am surprised to find a nice stock of regular clothes. I slip into a skinny pair of jeans and a big, purple sweater, comfortable to be wearing something normal. I brush my hair out and knot it behind my head before slipping back into bed again.

A few moments later, May walks in through the door. Well, _runs. _She bursts into the room and dashes towards me, practically tackling me on the bed. "Ames, I missed you so much!" she cries, squeezing me tight. Her size surprises me. She's grown much taller since the last time I remember her. When she pulls away, I examine her older features, her more refined, sophisticated look. She's not a little girl anymore.

"Hi, May," I smile, taking her in. "Wow, you've grown up so much. What are you, 20, now?"

"19, actually," she sighs. Her eyes are bright and full of wonder. Her beauty is stunning. "Are you excited? Mom said we were gonna watch a bunch of old Reports. They're _so _funny, Ames. You were the most entertaining thing I've ever seen, you don't even understand," May laughs.

The fact that she's not treating me like I'm broken, or even mentioning the whole accident thing, makes me love her even more. She's treating me like she would anyone - like her sister. No sympathy, no pity. Just plain old May being May. And I love her for it.

"May, get in here," I say, pulling up the covers. She scoots in next to me and immediately rests her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and squeeze her tight. "I love you, May."

"I love you, too, Ames," May smiles, just as my mom comes through the door.

"Okay, so I think we should start with some of the earlier ones, don't you think? Work our way up?"

"That _would _makes sense," I laugh. "Unless you think backwards."

My mother makes a face before climbing into bed with us. She figures out how to turn the screen on and shuffles through a bunch of settings, somehow figuring out how to work it. We didn't have a television this fancy at our house; this technology is almost foreign to me.

Mary walks in just as the first Report is starting and she sets a tray of pastries and tea on my bedside table. I thank her and she just nods awkwardly before leaving. My mother whispers something in her ear before dismissing her. I dive into a strawberry tart at May's suggestion and almost cry upon eating it. It's delectable.

Then I turn my attention to the screen and watch Gavril announce the Selected girls.

* * *

We watch for hours. Endless Reports and various videos that span almost the entire first year of my missing memory. I laugh as I watch myself fail to, well, be in the Selection. I gasp at the strange things I say on public television. And I'm shocked to see that I truly do look in love with Maxon.

And, to everyone's excitement, bits and pieces of the past are starting to illuminate in my mind.

It's almost 2 pm when somebody finally interrupts us. A tall, gorgeous girl comes in through the door, a hesitant smile on her face. Something about her looks familiar, but I can't put my finger on it. She has gorgeous blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes. She's wearing a simple blue dress and has a silver ring on her finger. I might be wrong, but she looks pregnant.

"Marlee!" May calls, hopping out of the bed and running over to her. My mother pauses the video and I vaguely remember who she is. This is Marlee Tames, my friend from the Selection. I don't know much about her, as we haven't even watched the videos about the Elite yet, but I _do _know that she's supposedly my best friend. And that she's one of my attendants.

"Hi, sweetheart!" Marlee says, hugging my sister tightly around the waist. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Oh, no, you're fine," my mother says, smiling at the girl who I'm sure she's grown close to. "We've been watching these things for hours; we probably should take a break."

"Yeah," Marlee nods. She looks over to me and I see her swallow. Her eyes freeze and the intensity in her glare almost scares me.

"Hi," I offer, smiling awkwardly.

"Hey, Mom, why don't we go check out the, uh, paintings in the hall?" May asks, nudging my mother awkwardly.

"What? May, we've been here a _million _times before; why would we check out the paintings?" Mom asks, oblivious.

"Because _maybe _they hung up something new," May growls, dragging my mother by the arm.

"Oh," she finally gets it. "We'll be back soon!" The two leave, my sister hauling our mother behind her, and I'm left alone with the girl I'm supposed to call my best friend.

"So, you're Marlee," I start.

And then she bursts into tears.


	6. Chapter 6

Marlee wipes her eyes furiously, obviously embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I just . . I get really emotional sometimes," she laughs. "I told myself I wouldn't cry, but just seeing you . . . God, America." She takes a long deep breath, shakes her head and adds, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. The last thing you need is a crying stranger, right?"

I smile at that and gesture to one of the couches. "Here, sit down. Can I, uh, get you anything? Tea, water?" I ask awkwardly. I'm sure my maids already offered her outside the door, but I ask her anyway. She just shakes her head, blinking back tears.

"Listen, America," she starts, looking at me in the eyes, her face soft and delicate, her gaze calming. "I know that you . . Maxon told me how much you've forgotten. And I don't want to push you or overwhelm you or anything, but I want you to know that I'm here for you. Ever since I met you, you've watched out for me. And now I want to do the same." She takes my hands in hers and squeezes it. "I'm going to make sure you get through this. I promise."

"Thank you," I smile, touched by her short speech of encouragement. I look down at our interlocking hands and immediately pull away, a memory pushing itself to the surface. I clutch my head, trying to grasp it, make sense of it.

"America? America, are you alright?" Marlee is saying, her arms reaching towards me. I pull away and stand up, trying to focus in on the memory. I see flashes of faces, a crowd. A strange contraption. An angel wrapped in chains, kneeling, her face streaked with tears. A man whispering, "It'll be okay," over and over again. A voice counting slowly, each number bringing more pain and pain. Myself, kicking and screaming, thrashing and calling a name. And the angel's hands being torn to pieces by metal rods.

The memory is so vivid, so horrible, that I scream out, falling to floor. The memory - the look on her face, the cries of anguish, the utter terror in her eyes - is too much for me.

"Mrs. Singer! May! Come quick!" Marlee calls, rushing over to me on the floor. She scoops me up in her arms and presses me to her chest, holding me tightly. "It's okay, America. You're okay," she whispers, her hands - her beautiful, scarred hands - stroking my gently.

My mother and sister enter seconds later, a guard behind them. "What is it?" my mother asks frantically, kneeling down beside us.

"I don't know. She just started screaming and then she collapsed," Marlee whispers, as if I can't hear. Still, the effort to comfort me is greatly appreciated.

"Should I go get the doctor?" May asks, looking to me. I shake my head, unable to speak.

"Your Majesty, it's in my best interest to ensure your health and safety," the guard says, bending down to look me in the eyes. "If something has happened, we should get you to the doctor."

I shake my head still. I try to form words - to explain that nothing about my health has changed, but just that a horrible, horrible memory has resurfaced. My mother pulls the guard aside and speaks to him urgently, probably informing him to get the doctor anyway.

"Ames? What's going on?" May asks, gently peeling me off of Marlee and wiping the tears off my cheeks; I hadn't even realized I was crying.

"I just," I stutter, forming the words. "I remembered something."

"That's good, though, right?" Marlee asks, confused by this. Of course to them I must look crazy - screaming because a memory returned when I should be jumping for joy.

"It . . . it wasn't a pleasant memory," I murmur. Instead of saying anything, I gingerly take Marlee's fragile hands in mine and examine them. There is barely a mark on them, but there's a clear picture of them bruised and bloodied in my head. Now they're healed and whole, almost brand new.

"Oh," Marlee gasps, understanding. "America . . . I didn't . . Don't think about that, okay? Just . . . forget it, okay? You shouldn't have to think about that," she stutters, looking to my sister for help. May opens her mouth, then closes it.

"I'm so sorry, Marlee," I breathe, looking at her in shock. "It was so horrible. And it just kept replaying in my head."

"It's okay, Ames," May says, stroking my hand with her thumb.

"America, please don't cry," Marlee says, though she herself is tearing up. "That's in the past. It happened five years ago. I'm fine now, I'm better than fine, even. I'm _happy, _America. And you know why?"

I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing. Her warm, brown eyes calm me down. "Why?"

"Because of you, America. You're the reason Carter and I are here, together, in the palace. You're the reason Maxon pardoned us so greatly. You're the reason we were able to get real jobs, live real lives. Because of you, America. Because of your friendship and your love."

Remembering that day has made me remember everything I feel for Marlee; not all the specific events or jokes or talks that we shared, but all the love I know I had for her. _Have. _I still have that love. _  
_

I pull her close to me and squeeze her tightly, grateful to have a friend that cares so much. "Thank you, Marlee."

"No, thank you, America," she laughs, planting a gentle kiss on my cheek. "Now, come on, you still have, what, 30,00 episodes of the Report to watch?"

I giggle and she helps me stand up. May follows suit and I notice that my mother is standing at the door, smiling. The guard is no longer there. "Come on, kids, let's try to finish April's episodes, alright?" she said, gesturing for us to get into the bed. We all cram in there, squeezing against each other, May and my mother on my left, Marlee on my right. We spend the rest of the afternoon watching the Reports. And with each episode, each glimpse into my past life, bits and pieces start to come back to me.

* * *

There's a knock on the door somewhere around 6pm. We're still cuddling under the covers, watching TV, but I call to let them in. My mother pauses the episode. Maxon peaks his head in the doorway. "Excuse me, ladies?"

"To what do we owe the pleasure, _your majesty?" _May says sarcastically, smiling at him.

He rolls his eyes, which then settle on me. There's a hint of curiosity in his gaze and I wonder if word's gotten back to him yet about today's events. Perhaps the guard told him about my recollections. "Dinner will be served in an hour. I know we haven't had a formal dinner in a few days, but I thought it would be nice to get back into a routine. If that's alright with you, of course?" He directs the last question to me.

The thought of sitting at a long table full of people I don't recognize terrifies me. However, I oblige. Just like he said, I should be getting back into a routine. "Of course. That sounds nice."

"Wonderful," he grins. "I'll see you all in a bit." He closes the door tight and I lean back against my pillow.

I expect my mother to start playing the video again, but I find all three of them looking at me. "What? What did I do?" I ask sheepishly, slightly embarrassed.

"America," May groans. "This is your first real dinner since . . . you got back."

"And you're still wearing your jeans," Marlee adds.

"And the problem with that is . . . ." I wonder. If there are jeans in my closet, doesn't that mean I'm allowed to wear them?

"The problem is that you're the _Queen of Illéa, _and you've forgotten how the Queen usually dresses for dinner." May has a mischievous smile on her face, as does Marlee. I cover my eyes and lean my head back.

"Really, May? _Really?" _I ask, dreading the oncoming activity.

"Oh, America, I don't joke when it comes to this kind of stuff," she answers, hopping out of bed, and preparing me for a makeover.


	7. Chapter 7

May spends the whole hour on my hair, pinning it in delicate curls, twisting pieces here and there, while Marlee covers my face in makeup. My mother sorts through the closet for a ridiculously long time before finally finding a few things she likes. She holds them up for me to see, but Marlee insists I close my eyes, so I do that.

"Usually your maids do this," Marlee explains, tilting my chin upwards. "But we gave them the night off."

"Every day?" I ask.

"Yup," May answers giddily. I wonder if she gets this kind of treatment when she visits the palace.

"In the morning, right before breakfast," Marlee adds, pressing her cold hands against my eye. "And then right before dinner."

"You're kidding, right?" I laugh. I can't imagine myself sitting for an hour each morning as a few girls toyed with my hair and my face. The idea is ridiculous.

"No," Marlee giggles. "Though it usually doesn't take this long, as they're professionals."

"And I like it?"

I can almost hear May roll her eyes behind me as she tugs a final piece of hair into place. "Ames, if you hated it, we wouldn't be doing it right now."

I can't imagine myself ever liking this, but I suppose I must've gotten used to it. A vision rolls through my mind; three girls dressing me each day, painting my lips, helping me bath. The memory shocks me, but I try not to show any sign of recognition. Marlee's hands don't even hesitate. "Tell me about my maids," I say, realizing that doesn't sound suspicious at all. Maybe once I learn a bit about them, the whole memory will come back.

"Well, there's Mary, who's been with you since the beginning," Marlee says, pulling away, now finished with my makeup. I admire my face in the mirror as she talks. The makeup is simple yet sophisticated - not too much, but just enough. I look very regal. Very . . . mature. I'm surprised by my reflection and try not to focus on it too much. "She's the sweetest thing. And an incredible designer. She made your wedding dress, you know? She's also very focused and does her job very well. And she absolutely adores you, America. She would do anything for you."

"Really? My _maid _cares about me?"

"Ames, you have to forget your preconceptions of palace life. It's very different from what we all expected," May says with a grin. I wonder if there's something else behind that smirk, but don't ask her.

"Your maids are some of your best friends, America. You spend a lot of time with them, and you've grown very fond of them. They're practically your sisters," Marlee smiles. "And then there's Paige. You found her on the streets and helped her find work at the palace."

I nod as May finishes my hair. "Do you like it?" she asks, stepping away. I touch the delicate curls, careful not to move any of the pins, and turn my head to the side. The hairdo is absolutely stunning; I'm surprised it wasn't done by a professional.

"May, _how _did you learn to do this?" I ask, incredulous.

"I spend a lot of time with you, America. I've watched Jessica do your hair so many times I could do it in your sleep," she laughs. I wonder what she does now with her life. Is she still an artist? Or does she not have to work due to my royal status? And then a weird thought strikes me: _does she have a boyfriend_?

I decide to save that question for later, as my mother is now holding up dresses for me to inspect. "I love this one, America," she says, holding up a pale, pink gown covered in lace. I shake my head and she holds up another one, this time a bright, green dress. "I'll look like Christmas," I laugh, gesturing to my hair.

My mom rolls my eyes and finally holds up a simple turquoise dress. It has long, patterned sleeves and a low neckline. The dress cinches at the waist before fanning out, hitting the knees. It's absolutely lovely. "Oh, wow," I gasp, taking it from my mother. "This is incredible."

"Mary made it for you, after the accident," my mother says. "She thought you'd like it."

"I . . . I love it," I say, feeling the soft chiffon in my hands. I throw off my jeans and sweater and Marlee helps dress me. It feels weird to be so comfortable around her - after all, I just met her today - but there's something about her that's so familiar, I can't help but feel like I've known her my whole life. She laces up the back and then steps away, presenting me with her arms.

"America," my mother says, covering her mouth. "You look wonderful."

I look at the girl in the mirror - this stranger I'm supposed to call myself - and try to take it in. This is me. This is America Schreave, Queen of Illéa. _I _am Queen of Illéa.

"Okay, now we have to get ready. We only have a few minutes. America, wait here, will you?" Marlee says, checking her watch. I nod as they practically run out of the room, racing to get ready in such a short amount of time. I sigh and examine the pictures on the wall, running my hand over the frames.

There's a picture of Marlee and I on the right. I'm laughing at her while she covers her face in embarrassment. I wonder if Maxon took the picture. For some reason, I feel like he's a photographer.

There's another one of me with a small, pretty, blonde girl. She has bright blue eyes and is dressed in a wedding dress, absolutely radiant. I'm standing beside her in a bridesmaid dress, hugging her tightly. In the background I can see Aspen grinning. I wonder who she is, and what her relationship to me is. I don't recognize her from the numerous girls in the Selection, but she doesn't strike any memory of a friend either.

Just then, Marlee comes back in, now dressed in a sophisticated yellow dress. She looks stunning, though she only had three minutes to get ready. "Okay, you ready? Your mom and sister are going to meet us there."

"Yeah, just, who's this?" I ask, pointing to the pretty blonde in the picture. The more I look at her, the more curious I am about her identity.

"Oh, that's Lucy," Marlee says with a grin. I wonder if they're friends. "Aspen's wife."

_Oh._

* * *

**Sorry this chapter isn't so exciting. I needed a filler chapter before the dinner - one where there wasn't a huge amount of emotional turmoil. I hope this is okay...Thank you SOOOOOO much to everyone who's been reading and reviewing. I really do appreciate it. You guys are the best!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you guys for so many great reviews! I'm glad you guys like the story. Just for future notice: I try to update as soon as I can but I have a crazy schedule so if I don't update for a week or so, I apologize. I try to update every 4-5 days, though. So sorry for the wait. **

* * *

Aspen's wife.

Wife.

Oh, god, I'm going to be sick.

"Come on, we're going to be late," Marlee says, snatching my arm and pulling me away from the picture of Lucy. When Aspen told me everything, he had mentioned getting married. But hearing him saying it didn't really go through my brain; I didn't exactly process the information. But now, after seeing a picture of his wife in a wedding dress, standing beside me as her bridesmaid, it seems so real.

It _is _real.

Aspen's married. And not to me.

"America, are you okay?" Marlee asks, turning around to see if I'm still following her, which I am. "It's just dinner with your family and friends. Nothing fancy, okay? You shouldn't be afraid."

"Yeah," I whisper, nodding my head and continuing forwards, towards the dining hall. Ever since Aspen and I started dating - which, apparently, was six years ago - we had talked about getting married. I told him I didn't care about marrying down, though he worried I was lying. He was slowly saving up money. I was silently daydreaming of a life with him.

But I guess reality won out.

Marlee leads me into the room, where I see a long, elegant table set up, chairs surrounding it. At the head of the table are two thrones of sorts, with Maxon sitting in one of them. Celeste and Shal are sitting in tiny little chairs on either side of the thrones. My mother and May are on the left side, while Aspen and a man I don't recognize are sitting across from each other a little further down. And beside Aspen is the little, blonde girl I recognize from the picture: Lucy.

She turns her head, as if she knows I'm thinking about her, and stares at me. She stands up and immediately comes over to me. Aspen looks like he wants to follow, but doesn't. "America," she breathes, her eyes wide and nervous.

"Hi," I say, timidly. "You're Lucy."

"Yes," she murmurs, her voice trembling. I can see that she's shaking. "I'm guessing you don't remember me?"

I can see the hope in her eyes, the small wish that I'll remember her. I hate to let her down. "No, I'm sorry. I don't really remember anybody. But I've . . I've heard a lot about you."

"Good things, I hope?" she laughs nervously. "Um, well, I just wanted to tell you that I'm here, if you need anything."

"Thank you, Lucy." She bows, which makes me uncomfortable, before heading back to her seat. Aspen kisses her gently on the cheek, and some part of me senses that she's crying.

"America," Maxon says, rising, and coming over to me immediately. He takes a deep breath and studies me, examining my hair and makeup, my new dress. "You look . . . wow, just, you look lovely, my dear."

I can't help but blush. "Thank you," I say, looking away from his warm, brown eyes. Past him, I can see Aspen whispering softly to Lucy. Jealousy bubbles within me, though I know I shouldn't feel that way. In front of me is _my _husband, Maxon. Why should I feel jealous?

"Why don't we sit down? Dinner will be served soon," Maxon says gesturing to the thrones. I realize that, at the end of the table, I'll be surrounded by people I don't know. Maxon seems to notice my hesitancy. "Oh, um, if you prefer to sit somewhere el-"

"No, that's fine," I interrupt him, eager to appear more put together than I feel.

Marlee has taken her seat next to the mysterious man, who I now realize must be her husband, though I can't remember his name. "Um, Maxon?" I say, leaning over to him.

"Yes?" he says, a bit of excitement pooling in his eyes.

"What's Marlee's husband's name? I can't, uh, remember," I say sheepishly. I feel uncomfortable.

"Oh, that's Carter," Maxon replies, a little bit disappointed. What did he expect me to say? "Come, let's sit down."

Maxon guides me to our seats, pulls out the chair for me, and then sits down himself. "Mommy!" Celeste cries as I sit down beside her, grasping for my hands. "You're eating with us today?"

"Yeah, I think some food will help me feel better, don't you think?" I smile, trying to sound normal. She giggles and I realize that she has my laugh, which only makes my heart pound faster.

I look at Maxon, handling Shal, who's squirming in his little chair. He's crying softly now, pointing a chubby finger at me and murmuring something. I don't know how old he is - seven, eight months? - but he is definitely talking. I lean in closer and realize he's crying out _mama, mama! _My heart cracks at the sound of his little, cute voice, calling for the mother who doesn't know him. Maxon notices me and gives me a painful look. Unsure of what to do, I stand up and cross over to Shal. "America, you don-"

Maxon breaks off as I pick him up from his highchair, cradling him in my arms. I'd held my siblings millions of times, so there was nothing new about it. But the way his cries stopped as soon as I touched him - the way he nuzzled his cheek in the crook of my neck - was something new. He felt so familiar, so loving.

He felt like _mine. _

"Shh, it's okay, mommy's here," I say, kissing the top of his head gingerly. He murmurs something intelligible and curls up against me as I rock him. I'm suddenly taken back to another time, another place. I'm rocking a newborn boy in my arms, sweat dripping down my face, mixed with happy tears. I'm wearing a ratty t-shirt that smells like Maxon, and the boy in my arms is warm against me. Maxon is sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a smaller version of Celeste, who's stretching her arms out, itching for her baby brother. I laugh as Celeste takes his tiny hand in hers and squeezes. Maxon and I lock eyes, the warmest, sweetest eyes I've ever seen, and I let out another joyous sob. "He's going to be a beautiful boy," I whispered.

I was pulled out of the memory by the sound of Maxon's voice asking if I'm okay. I realize that Shal is nearly asleep in my arms, and I set him down gently in his seat, unsure if I should wake him for dinner or not. "I'm fine. I just . . . thought of something," I say, sitting back down.

Dinner is awkward, to say the least. I try not to act too out-of-the-loop, but that's hard to do when you don't remember the past six years. Lucy stays quiet the whole time, not saying a word to me. I feel horrible, like I've let her down in some way.

Marlee's husband, Carter, is very nice. He tells funny stories and smiles at everything I say. Marlee looks at him with absolute adoration. May makes faces with Celeste throughout the whole meal, to which she responds with even stranger faces. "What's up with the two of them?" I ask Maxon, biting into my steak.

"May sometimes babysits the kids," Maxon explains with a grin.

"We don't have, like, a royal nanny?" I ask with a laugh.

Maxon chokes on his wine. "No, we don't. Either Marlee, May, or one of the maids watches them when we can't. But you're pretty good about taking care of them. You've put mothering before being a queen on your priorities list," Maxon smiles.

My mother talks with Aspen for a long time, and I wonder if they've become friends. My mother always liked Aspen growing up, but I know she would have never let me marry him. She wanted me to marry _up, _not down (you got your wish, right, mom?). Now that she knows him better, I wonder what she'd think of our (past) relationship.

"Mommy, can I have that?" Celeste says, pointing to my strawberry tart. I've only eaten a few bites - though it tastes like nothing I've ever had.

"No, honey, you already had your own," I tell her with a grin, surprised to hear myself saying the word _honey. _Is that what mothers do? Does that sound normal?

Celeste pouts, but doesn't seem too sad. Maxon grins, nudging me in the side. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, a smirk creeping on his face. "You just . . . you're still a good mom."

"Huh?"

"I mean, you may not remember your kids, but you still know how to take care of them," Maxon shrugs, though he does it so elegantly the word _shrug _doesn't really fit.

"Thanks," I smile, taking a bite of the tart. There's an awkward silence between us as I continue to eat and he sips his water. I wonder if this is how it always is at dinner - quiet, calm, small conversations going on, no one yelling across the table. Or is it usually chaotic? With everyone talking, everyone laughing and grinning. Am I the reason this dinner is so quiet, so reserved? I try to break that awkwardness by turning to Maxon, looking at him straight-on for the first time this whole meal. "You know, I just wanted to say that, um, I'm sorry. We watched a lot of the Reports today and I can see . . I can see how much you, um care about me. And that I feel the same. Or felt. And I'm sorry that this is taking so long to figure out. I just . . it's very confusing for me. But I'm trying. I want this to work. I want to have what we had on the Report so many years ago," I smile, somewhat shocked that I said all that.

Maxon's looking at me intensely, something hidden behind his velvet eyes. I can't tell what it is, but I like the look of it. "Thank you, America," he whispers. "I know you're trying." He takes my hand in his and I don't resist, don't pull back.

In fact, I hold on.

* * *

**Yay some Maxerica! Let me know what you think. I'll try to have the next chapter up sometime this week.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey everybody! Sorry for the long wait. This week has been incredibly stressful and crazy and I had absolutely no time to even start writing. But I really do appreciate all the reviews and messages! Thank you guys so much. I'm glad you're liking it! Enjoy this chapter (with a little bit of maxerica, FINALLY!) **

* * *

The next few days at the palace go by smoothly. I spend my days watching the Report, reading old articles, and analyzing photographs. Little flashes of my past are starting to resurface. I remember the beautiful oasis of the palace gardens. I recognize the miscellaneous names tossed around in conversations. I recall words exchanged, the memories slowly reappearing in my head.

I'm starting to feel better.

I'm starting to feel at home.

It's Thursday night and I'm in my room, fiddling with my violin, trying to play the melody in my head. I pluck the strings carefully, finally settling on the right chord, and jot it down. A knock on the door doesn't even bother me. "Come in," I call as I continue to play, softly testing out the song I've created. It doesn't sound incredible, but definitely not bad. Something tells me being the Queen hasn't allotted me a lot of time to practice my violin. I'm definitely a bit rusty.

"That sounds lovely, my dear," Maxon says, coming up behind me, looking over my shoulder at the scribbled notes in front of me.

"Really? It could definitely use some work, but I appreciate the lie," I smile, setting the instrument back in its case. I swivel around in my chair to face Maxon. He's still dressed in his suit, though it's slightly rumpled. The buttons are messed up and his shirt is wrinkled. His tie is crooked, his sleeves un-cuffed. Something tells me he's had a long day. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a lot of meetings. Because of your . . . absence, there's been a lot of extra work on my end." He doesn't say it accusingly, just a fact. He doesn't even seem mad, just exhausted.

"I'm sorry," I say, standing up, heading towards my bed. "If you want, I could try to do some of the work. Maybe that will he-"

"No, no, no!" He says, shushing me. "America, you need your rest. You need time. There's no way you're going to try to do your job in your current state!"

"But that's the thing, Maxon," I argue, plopping down on the soft comforter. "It's my _job. _Just because I don't remember what to do, doesn't mean I shouldn't be doing it. I am the Queen, you know? It's a pretty important job, if you ask me," I smirk. It still feels weird to call myself _the Queen, _but I'm slowly getting used to it.

"Yes, you are, but I'm also the King. I have plenty of time to deal with both of our affairs while you rest," he says, sitting down beside me."

"But yo-"

"End of discussion," he insists, covering my mouth with his hand.

"Fine," I mumble into his palm. After a second to long, he removes his hand from my face and I purse my lips. "What are you doing here, anyway? I mean, in my room. Did you want something?"

"No, I just," Maxon starts but drifts off, afraid. I raise my eyebrow at him, urging him to finish the thought. He surrenders without a fight. "I just wanted to see you, talk to you, look at you."

Over the course of these past few days, I've grown to like Maxon well enough. He's kind and caring, sensitive and thoughtful. But I don't think I _love _him yet. Or, at least, don't remember loving him yet. It just hasn't clicked.

Still, him saying these things makes me blush, uncomfortable. My face is hot and I can't help but look away. He coughs, clearing his throat, and decide to bring up a question I've been meaning to ask. "I was wondering if I could go visit my family's house."

"Why?" he asks, confused.

I picture the little, yellow house from one of the photo albums, the place Maxon built for my family to move to after our wedding, so they'd always be close. "I don't know. I just thought it might jog my memory. And I've been dying to see the rest of my family."

"I have to admit, I'm surprised they haven't come to check up on you yet," Maxon agrees.

"I mean, I figured Kenna wouldn't - we're not _that _close - and of course not Kota, but I thought Dad would have come over by now," I say, shrugging. The thought of my dad not even bothering to see how I'm doing is pretty painful; I've been trying not to think about it.

"Yeah, I gu-Wait, your Dad?" Maxon says, looking at me with some strange expression.

"Yes," I say, weary.

"Oh, America," he whispers, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"What? Is something wrong? Is . . . is he okay?" I ask, suddenly scared. A lot could have happened to my family over the past 6 years. What if . . . what if he left my mother? The thought makes me sick.

"I thought someone would have told you," Maxon mutters, more to himself than to me. "I thought Aspen or your mother, maybe even Marlee, or May, or _someone. _How could they not tell you? How could they have been so . . Oh, god, how am I supposed to do this . . " His voice is slowly rising and I wonder what's going on. A thousand possibilities run through my mind, all of them making me dizzy with worry.

"Maxon, _what's wrong?_" I scream, placing my hands on his shoulders. He finally stops mumbling, looking up at me with scared, tired eyes. He swallows hard.

"America, I'm so sorry," he whispers. Pain flickers is his eyes and I brace myself for what's coming. I can tell this is hurting him - to know that he's going to have to tell me whatever horrible thing this is. I wonder briefly if he told me this same news the first time. Is that why it hurts him so much? Because he has to watch me suffer from the same thing twice, because of his words?

"Your father died five years ago."

I feel like I'm going to puke.

I feel like I'm going to cry.

I feel like . . .

I feel like I already knew that.

"How?" I manage to say, though that single syllable takes a lot of effort.

"Heart problems," Maxon whispers, clutching my hand gently in between his. The soft feel of his fingers against my skin soothes me.

"When?" I choke.

"Right at the end of the Selection." His voice is without inflection, without feeling. I can tell it's hurting him to say these words, to bring the bearer of this news.

"Okay," I whisper, nodding silently. I don't know what to think. This information, though it hurts like hell, isn't surprising. I'm not shocked in anyway, just . . pained. Almost like I knew it was coming. Somewhere in my subconscious, my father's death was buried, and its awakening didn't trigger any emotions. Just . . . emptiness.

"America, I'm so sorry. I didn't . . I thought you knew. I'm not the right person to have told you, I just . . " he breaks off once he sees my face, perfectly calm, perfectly normal. No tears, no anger, no hatred.

My mind's already coped with this, even if I don't remember it.

"Why don't you get some sleep? It's pretty late and I think it would do you some good," Maxon says, rising from the bed and heading towards the door. I nod, wordlessly sliding under the blankets. They're warm and cozy and make me forget about the pain. Maxon flicks off the lights, murmuring a _good night _as he opens the door.

"Wait!" I cry, sitting up straight. Maxon turns around, stunned and slightly worried, his face creased. "Will you . . . will you stay with me?" The words just slip out. I can't help them. All I know is I'm not sure what I feel right now, but I know that Maxon will help me understand. I don't know how, but he will. I know he can help. Maxon always helps.

"America . . ." he starts, obviously confused by my words.

"Please stay with me, Maxon," I whisper, choking on his name. Something in his face, the way his eyes study me so cautiously, makes me dissolve.

"Alright," he whispers, shutting the door. He walks over to the bed, hesitantly slipping in beside me, still wearing his suit.

"Hold me," I say, taking his arm and wrapping it gently across my torso. He's cautious at first, unsure if I really want this, but eventually his desires win out and he's holding me tightly to him, my back pressed against his warm chest. There's something so familiar about this position, this comfort I feel in his arms, that I feel myself drifting to sleep.

"America?"

"Hmm," I say, my eyes heavy with sleep, my mind fading into darkness.

"Would it be alright if I kissed you right now?" he asked.

Before my brain can process it, I tell him "yes," though I don't know why. He leans over my body and ever so gently places a kiss on my cheek. It is soft and delicate, warm and touching.

He pulls away but I roll over and cup his face, bringing his lips to mine. This kiss feels like everything and nothing at all once. It is soft yet passionate. Soundless though my mind is screaming. Quick, but it feels like forever.

I pull back first, rolling back over so that my back is to his chest again. "Good night, Maxon."

I hear him take a deep breath, then sigh. I can hear the smile on his lips. "Good night, my dear."

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**I think this is my favorite chapter so far, so I hope you guys liked it. Let me know what you think!**


	10. Review Replies!

**THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER. THIS IS A BUNCH OF RANDOM STUFF (sorry if you got excited)**

Hey, so I've been getting a lot of reviews/ideas lately. I want to reply, but you're all using Guest accounts. So, I'll just reply here. However, if you want to send me ideas and you want me to ALWAYS reply, please create an account and we can message back and forth in private (which is much preferred to this).

**Annabeth L:** Thank you for your constant reviews. I have been seeing them, I just didn't know how to reply since you use guest. I want her to have a bad memory of him, but at the same time I can't think of anything lol. Like maybe one of the fights they had during the Selection? I just didn't want to retell a fight, you know?

**AcademicGirl:** I don't think there will be a "she remembers everything" scene, but it's possible. TO be honest, I haven't planned that far ahead yet lol. And I also don't want to spoil what I have planned!

**Random guest:** Umm...Idk if there will be a maxmerica sex scene yet...we'll see?

**EVERYONE**: A lot of people think I should make America pregnant, but I've already gone that route on a bunch of my other fics, and I'm kind of sick of writing it...Also I don't want this fic to be about their kid, but their relationship. Thanks for the suggestion though!

**Thank you to all of you that have reviewed/read this story and I look forward to hearing back from you (HOPEFULLY WITH AN ACCOUNT!) -Hannah :) **


	11. Chapter 10

**Thank you for all the wonderful reviews, once again! Sorry for such long wait, and for not such a long chapter...Hopefully I'll update sooner this time. We'll see. I've just been crazy busy lately.**

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Maxon asked me out on a date.

The other night, right after dinner, he pulled me aside. "America, now that you're starting to retrieve some of your memories," Maxon started, awkwardly fiddling with the hem of his suit jacket. "I was wondering if we could maybe talk more."

"Yeah, why not?" I replied, not really getting it. "We can talk now, if you want."

"No, Ames," he murmurs, placing a gentle hand over mine. "I was hoping we could maybe . . . I don't know . . go on a, um, date?"

"Oh," I said, shocked. Maxon didn't seem like the kind of guy who went on "dates." But then I remember that he must've gone on hundreds of dates over the course of the Selection, and the idea seemed less foreign. "Yeah, sure. That sounds great." I had hoped he hadn't heard the hesitancy in my voice.

"Wonderful. Saturday at seven?" he had smirked.

"Saturday. Seven. Got it," I had repeated before rushing away.

Now, here I stood, Saturday night, sifting through my closet in absolute horror. "I have _nothing _to wear!" I cried, throwing my hands up and plopping down on the floor.

"I never thought I'd hear you say that," Lucy smirks from her place on my bed.

"Yeah, America, I don't think you've ever even cared about what you've worn. Ever," Marlee agrees, playing with Lucy's hair. Though I didn't exactly like Lucy at first - especially since she acted very reserved around me - I've grown to like her over the past few weeks. She's friendly and sweet, and has a hidden sense of humor. And I've also gotten over my jealousy for her marriage to Aspen. That's progress, right?

"I know. I usually wouldn't care, I just . . " I sigh, burying my face in my hands. "I want to look good, you know?"

"You _always _look good, America," Lucy smiles. "And Maxon doesn't care, you know. You've worn sweatpants to dinner and he's still called you beautiful."

"Really?"

"Duh, America! He's in love with you. Of course he thinks you're beautiful," Marlee laughs.

"No, I mean I really wore sweats to dinner? As the _queen?" _The two girls giggle, and I feel embarrassed once again. I mean, I know I'm not the girly type, but I can't imagine dressing that casually in such a high position of royalty. Maxon must really care about me if he puts up with _that. _"Oh, god, I'm a wreck, aren't I?"

"Yes, but a wonderful one," Marlee shrugs.

I stand up and carefully flip through my closet again. There are tons of dresses - at least fifty - but none of them seem right. Half of them look familiar - whether from pictures or magazines or videos of the Report - but a lot of them seem new. "What about this one?" I ask, holding up a simple yellow dress I had missed the first time.

"No, you wore that to Maxon's birthday party last year," Lucy informs me. "Too memorable." I wonder briefly why I keep so many dresses if they're all so _memorable. _I feel like a queen would never wear something twice. Not that I really care . . . it just doesn't seem right.

"Okay, this one?" I say, holding up a lengthy green chiffon dress.

"Christmas party," Marlee murmurs. I roll my eyes and shove the dress back in my closet. She laughs, but then something in her eyes seems to spark. "Oh, I've got just the thing!" Marlee pops off the bed and rushes out of the room. Lucy and I share a confused look, but she's back within a minute, holding a stunning red dress in her arms. "I was saving this for my anniversary with Carter next month, but you can have it."

"Oh, Marlee, I couldn't," I reply automatically, though my first instinct is to grab the dress without hesitation. It's gorgeous, with a simple neckline and tiny lace details.

"Yes, you can," she insists, shoving the dress towards me. "Think of it as a 'I'm-glad-you're-okay-even-if-you-don't-have-your-memory-back gift! Plus, we share clothes all the time."

"But, Marlee, what will you wear?"

She waves me off without missing a beat. "I have a month, America. I'm sure Lilian can make me something else." Lilian is the palace's head seamstress. Mary makes all of my dresses, but Lilian handles all of the other girls' garments - Marlee, Lucy and even May. "Don't worry about it! Just put it on!"

I give her one last unsure look, but she just throws the dress into my hands. I hastily undress, shoving my purple dress from tea this afternoon onto the ground and sliding into the red one. Marlee helps to lace up the back, and Lucy holds my hair as she does so. When I turn around to face them, both of the girls gasp. Lucy is smiling so wide I can't help but grin as well. Marlee's hands are clasped in front of her and I feel like she's about to start jumping up and down. "Oh, America, you look wonderful."

"Just perfect!"

I walk over to the long mirror on the other side of my room and stare at myself in shock. I look . . . beautiful. Queenly. The red compliments my hair perfectly, though I expected it to clash. The neckline is perfect. The cinched waist emphasizes my curves wonderfully. I twirl around, examining the back, and fight the urge to jump up and down myself.

"Okay, you can definitely keep that. I would have looked like a trash bag compared to you," Marlee giggles. "Now, come on, you need to do your hair and makeup. We only have a few minutes before Maxon will be here."

The two quickly sit me down and call for Paige, who arrives in just seconds. She fixes my hair into a loose up-do and paints my face with simple, natural makeup. We chat while she powders my face, talking about stupid, mindless things, and I almost forget my current situation. It feels like I'm at a sleepover with a bunch of friends, just laughing and dressing up and being girls. But then I remember that, no, I'm the amnesiac queen who's preparing for a date with her forgotten husband.

A knock on the door shushes our giggling and my three friends immediately back away from me, giving me space. "Good luck, America!" Marlee calls, herding the girls into the other room, where I'm guessing they'll hide until Maxon takes me away. God, they are crazy.

I open the door and stop when I see him. He's wearing a dark suit that clings to his body, emphasizing his curves. His hair is brushed back, framing his face, making his dark eyes pop against his tan skin. He looks so handsome I have to fight the urge to gasp.

"Wow, America . . . You look . . ." he murmurs, his voice caught in his throat. "Absolutely exquisite," he finishes. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

"As do you," I nod.

We both stand there for a minute, not speaking, just staring at each other. He's breathtaking, really. All those years of watching the Reports, seeing the young prince grow up, I had never once thought he was handsome. But now, with him right in front of me, his eyes bright and his lips tempting, I can't imagine ever thinking so. "I didn't think you would even care about dressing up for me," Maxon admits, smiling subtly.

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm a bit nervous." I hear a laugh from behind and I glance to the door leading to the connecting room, where my friends are hiding. I roll my eyes and Maxon swallows back a laugh. "I wanted to look good for my first date, you know?"

Maxon smiles a sad, little smile, and I worry I've said something wrong. But then he just takes my hand, kisses it softly, and holds it tightly in his. "My dear, you wore jeans to our first date, if I remember correctly."

"Oh, well," I start, laughing at the image. "I guess things have changed."

"Indeed they have." His hand is still in mine, which feels strangely intimate. I want to curl up into his grasp, wrap myself in his tender hands, fold myself into his loving embrace. "Shall we?" he finally says, unclasping my hand and holding out his bent arm. I link my own arm tenderly through his.

"We shall," I smile as he leads me out of the doorway and down the hall, escorting to me to who-knows-where.

But I don't care where we're going. I'm just happy to finally be going somewhere with him.


	12. Chapter 11

**Okay so I'm going to warn you, this chapter doesn't "technically" make sense, though I won't tell you why now because it will spoil it. But just go with it...**

"You'll see," he smirks as we pass a row of guards. They all bow as we pass and I give them an awkward smile. I still haven't gotten used to the whole _I'm the queen so you have to bow in my presence and call me Your Majesty _thing. It's still unnerving. _  
_

He leads me down an unfamiliar hallway and we reach a grand doorway. The front doorway.

Oh my god.

I've seen this doorway a thousand times from the outside, in a billion different photographs or magazines. And now I'm standing on the inside and we're . . .

Are we going _out? _

Two guards pull open the immensely tall doors, and I breathe in the cool night air. "We're going _out? _I . . . I didn't think that was allowed," I stutter, in awe. Everything I'd ever heard about the Royal family included them staying inside the palace at all times, unless for business.

"It isn't really," Maxon shrugs. "But I _am _the King. I do make the rules." The way he says it, so care-free, with a teasing tone, makes me grin. Aspen never talked like that. His voice was different. But Maxon's voice is . . "Now, come on. The car is waiting." He claps his hand in mine and I squeeze his as he pulls me down the enormous front steps. They're gleaming white marble and I doubt that many people actually ever step on them. At the bottom of the endless stair case is a regular black car. I was expecting a limousine or, who-knows maybe a carriage, but definitely not a regular car. It's funny how so many normal things are mixed in with the extraordinary.

"After you, my dear," he smirks, opening the door for me. I slide in and he shuts the door then rushes to the other side to sit beside me. He gives a quick nod and the driver, a friendly looking man with graying hair, takes off.

"Why the boring car?" I wonder, turning to face him.

"So that we don't attract attention, of course."

"But we're going to attract attention anyway, right? I mean, people will probably see us." I look out the back window and find a trail of ordinary cars following as well, probably packed with security. "Not to mention the cluster of guards that will be following us."

"Trust me, we won't attract the least bit of attention where we're going." I squint a him, confused, but he simply smiles to himself. I look at his hands folded neatly in his lap and unconsciously reach out to grab them. He's a bit shocked at first, but then he blushes as I wrap my fingers gently around his.

* * *

A short ride later, the car stops and Maxon's walking around to open the door for me. He helps me out and I - for some odd reason - expect to be bombarded with camera flashes and yelling voices. But the world is silent around me. Not at _all _like I expected it to be.

When I finally get past the lack of attention, I look around and stumble back in shock. I'm standing in the middle of my driveway. In front of my _house._ I turn around and stare at the familiar neighborhood, the houses bright with families, the sky dim as the sun sets. And then I look back and my own house and fight the urge to cry. Maxon places his hand on my shoulder and it's all I need._  
_

"Why'd you bring me here?" I whisper, taking it all in. The house is dark, without light. From what I can tell, it's empty; no furniture, no picture frames, none of Dad's paintings or Gerad's toys. But somehow, the emptiness doesn't bother me. It still feels like home.

"I thought it would be a nice place for a date," Maxon grins. He turns over his shoulder and gestures to one of the guards, who are now taking their places around the house. The picture makes me laughs - who would've ever thought that palace guards would be surrounding my ordinary house? "Come on. Our dinner will get cold."

His words confuse me, but I follow him inside. He leads me through the darkness to the kitchen, which is dimly lit by - _seriously? - _candles lining the counters. On the floor, where the table should be, is a little picnic blanket covered in pillows, candles, and food. The first thing I notice is the gigantic pizza box, which almost makes me cry. "Pizza? Oh, Maxon, you know me too well!" I smile. I never would have guessed the King of Illéa ate pizza, but I've quickly realized he's just like a normal person; just slightly more important.

"I figured you'd be craving some familiar food," he smirks, taking me hand and leading me over, then sitting me down gently on a pillow. "We've got pizza, spaghetti, fruit, salad, bread, and some strawberry tarts for desert."

I laugh at the completely mismatched meal and find that I haven't felt this happy in a long time. Just looking at this place - this empty kitchen lit by candles, made cozy by Maxon's preparations - makes me dizzy. How does he know me so well?

Oh, right, we're married. I keep forgetting that.

"Oh, god!" I say, biting into the pizza, cheese oozing from my mouth. "This is _amazing. _How'd you get this to stay warm?" I chew without embarrassment. If he married me, he _must _know how I look when I eat.

"I had some of the guards leave right before us, to set it up."

"And the house? Hasn't somebody bought it by now?"

"No, you wouldn't let us sell it," he chuckles, almost choking on his own slice of pizza. "For sentimental reasons, I guess." I can't imagine myself ever being sentimental, but I'm glad I was at that moment. I would never want to give this house up, not in a million years.

"Maybe someday we can live in it, once Celeste is Queen," I suggest.

"Wouldn't that be lovely?" he smiles and the stars are in his eyes. I wasn't expecting to, but I lean over and kiss him right there. There's sauce on his mouth and it makes me laugh. He runs a hand over my cheek and I feel myself blushing.

And then I pull away.

"What was that for?" he asks, eyeing me suspiciously. I've only kissed him once since the accident.

"For being you," I smile, scooting over so that our knees our touching. "For caring about me and taking care of me. For not giving up on me or us or _this. _For trying so hard to fix things you didn't break. I don't know. For everything." I kiss him again, a quick peck on the lips. "For loving me."

"Oh, America," he sighs, pulling me towards him. This kiss is warm and tender, soft and gentle. He's careful with his touch, almost like he's testing the waters. I lean into him and I can feel his heart beating against my chest. Heat rises within me as each second passes and I wonder how I could have ever forgotten kissing this man. How could I have forgotten _loving _this man?

And then I remember it. I remember standing in the hallway, watching Maxon kiss another girl, practically tearing her apart. Or sitting at dinner, watching as he shared secrets with yet another girl. Or walking in the garden only to find Maxon flirting with another. I remember all those girls, fighting over him, bragging about him, acting like he was a prize to be won. I remember the way we bonded, the alliance we formed, and the eventual problems that caused. And I remember slowly falling in love with Maxon Schreave when it was the last thing I wanted to do.

"Ames?" he asks against my lips, sensing my distance. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just . . . " I want to tell him - that I remember how he kissed those other girls right in front of me, how he teased me and taunted me just to make me mad - but I can't. Not tonight; not after this wonderful dinner and this marvelous date. I don't want to ruin what he worked so hard to get back. The past is the past, right? What matters is right now. And right now, I'm kissing Maxon Schreave. "I just was thinking about how happy I am."

"As am I, my darling," he smirks before pulling me closer, kissing me again.

* * *

**The reason this chap didn't make sense (technically) is because Carolina and Angeles are VERY far apart (literally opposite sides of the country...) but just humor me and pretend they're a "short ride" away because I wanted this to be where he took her and idk I just thought it was cute so pretend it's geographically logical...**


	13. Chapter 12

**First off, I want to apologize for such a long wait (10 days!) I usually update weekly, but I've been ridiculously stressed with school/college apps/rehearsals lately, so please forgive me. I also had a lot of writer's block, as I didn't really know where I was going with this story. I know how I want it to end, but the middle is a bit mucky, so I'm sorry if this chapter isn't the best. Hopefully I'll think of something creative this week. But here you go! **

* * *

"Okay, so I type this thing up and then give it to who?" I ask, squinting at the computer screen in front of me. Over the past few days, Marlee has been helping me get back to work. She's taught me the basics of being a queen, and so far, I'm failing miserably. She says I'm doing fine - that the job's hard enough as it is, let alone without your memory - but I feel completely lost.

"Maxon. He has to approve it before you can send it out," Marlee explains, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Why? Doesn't he trust me?" I smirk.

Marlee rolls her eyes. "It's a stupid law. But it still has to be followed."

"Fine," I grunt, placing my hands over the keyboard for the ninth time. I start typing but stop, realizing I've forgotten what I'm even writing about. "And this letter is for . . ."

"An invitation to our conference with East Asia."

"Right . . ." I type carefully, aiming to sound formal and queenly. Marlee reads from over my shoulder and nods approvingly. It's another ten minutes before I'm finished with the short letter, but at least she approves. "Great, now can I be done for the day? I've been at this for hours." Which was true. We've been working since early in the morning, and it's nearly dinner time. I've barely accomplished anything, but Marlee says it's a good first step. She and Maxon will handle the rest of my work until I'm fully prepared to reclaim my duties.

"Just send it to Maxon, and then you're free to go," she smiles, giving me a wink. I finish up the computer and practically dart out of my chair. Marlee calls after me as I run down the hall, upstairs to the nursery.

Celeste is curled up on her bed, squinting studiously at her coloring book, a red crayon twisting in her hands. She's wearing an adorable, pink dress, and her scarlet hair is tied back in ribbons. She looks precious and I immediately grin at the site of her. Shal, on the other hand, is sitting is his crib, toying with his stuffed animals, making gurgling noises and murmuring gibberish.

"Mama!" Celeste pipes up, seeing me. She puts down her crayons and runs over to me, hugging my leg tightly. Shal lets out a little cry and I make my way over to him, dragging Celeste along.

I've been making an extra effort to see my kids - it still feels weird to say that: my kids - this past week. Most of my memories are from the selection; I still don't have any recollection of my children. But, I'm hoping, the more time I spend with them, the more I'll remember. And so far, it seems to be working. I don't feel awkward around them, or out of place. I just act like myself and they seem to love it.

"Will you help me with my drawing, Mommy?" Celeste asks as I lift Shal out of his cradle and hug him to my chest. He sighs in comfort and I kiss his forehead absently.

"Of course," I smirk, following her to her bed. I was thrilled to learn that Celeste has taken after my family - she loves the arts. She even asked for a piano for her birthday, which is coming up in a few weeks.

"This one is of you and Daddy," she says, pointing to a sketch of two stick figures holding hands. The only distinguishing features are my red hair and a crown on Maxon's head. I can't help but laugh. "But I don't think it's right yet. It needs something else . . ." she ponders, studying the drawing so hard that I wonder what's going on in her little head. Shal reaches out to touch the paper, but Celeste bats his tiny hand away. I give her a look that says _no, _and she frowns.

"I think you should add you and your brother to the drawing," I suggest.

"But _why?_" I laugh, the question so common among children.

"Because you two are part of the family, of course. It can be a family portrait."

"But I thought . . . I thought you didn't know we were family," Celeste states, though she sounds confused.

"What? Cellie, what are you talking about?" I laugh. The idea is preposterous. What could she possibly mean?

"Daddy said that . . . well, he told me not to tell you." She plays with the ends of her hair, avoiding my eyes. The red crayon, abandoned, rests on her bed, and for some reason, it makes me sad.

"Celeste," I say, tilting her head towards me. "What did Daddy say? You can tell me. I promise you won't get in trouble."

She bites her lip, debating. She looks scared, almost, and I feel guilty for putting her in this position. But I'm anxious to know what Maxon told her; why she thinks this way. Finally, she takes a deep breath and her brown eyes lock on me, worried and sad. "Daddy says when you got sick, you forgot some things. And that you might not know you were my mommy."

Oh, no.

I stand up and hastily put Shal back in his crib, who squirms anxiously but doesn't cry. I head back to Celeste and kneel down in front of the bed, taking her tiny hands in mine. "Cellie . . . I'm so sorry." I don't know what else to say. What _is _there to say when your three-year-old daughter tells you she knows you forgot about her? _  
_

"It's okay. Daddy says once you feel better, you'll remember everything and we can be a family again!" she chirps, now cheerful at the idea of a happy future. Tears prick my eyes and I hope she doesn't notice. How lovely it would be to remember everything, to be a happy family. If only it were that simple.

But instead of telling her the horrible, uncertain truth of it all - that the doctors don't know if I'll ever remember everything - I put on a fake smile and squeeze her hands. "Daddy's right, Celeste. When I was sick, my memory's got a little messed up. But now they're better, okay? And I will never forget that we're a family. I love you, Celeste, and I'll always remember that." I feel guilty saying that, as it's the complete opposite of the truth, but I don't know how else to handle this. Tell her that I might not _ever _remember her? Her birth? Her first steps, first words? No, I can't do that to this precious little kid. I can't have her think so negatively. I need to give her hope; I need to let her believe that everything will be okay, even if it won't.

"I love you, too, Mama," she whispers, collapsing into my arms and hugging me tight. I slip my arms around her and rock her against my body, clutching her to me as if her life depends on it. Holding her feels so right, so familiar. I don't understand how I could have ever forgotten such a beautiful thing, such a beautiful child. The idea of forgetting her makes me sick; I hug her even tighter.

Celeste finally gets uncomfortable and pulls away, stretching out her tiny arms, hands in fists. She yawns I know it's time for a nap. "Okay, let's get you to bed."

"But what about the drawing? I have to make it a family portrait, remember?" she asks, her eyes wide and hopeful. But even as she protests, her eyes are sleepy.

"Yes, and you will, after dinner. But right now, I think it's time for a nap." I tuck her in gently and move her drawing stuff over to her desk. She's out within seconds, her breathing calming music. I check on Shal, who's also fallen asleep, before flipping off the lights. It's roughly five o'clock, so I still have a while before I have to wake them up for dinner. I decide this would be a good time to have a talk with Maxon.

He's in his office, bent over his desk, flipping through an ancient looking book. His jaw is tense and his brows are furrowed; he's in total work mode, completely focused. It's kind of a turn on, I'll have to admit. But I try not to think about that. I came here to yell at him, not kiss him.

"America," he breathes, finally noticing me. He slams the book shut and immediately stands up, rushing over to me. His arms snake around my waist and he leans in for a kiss, but I push his lips away with my hand. "Ah, ah, ah," I say, stepping away. "We need to talk."

"Oh," he says, obviously confused. Things have been going well between us, so this probably comes as a shock. "What's wrong?"

"Celeste said some interesting things today, Maxon," I start, crossing my arms. I don't want to fight - and, honestly, I'm not even that mad at him, just curious - so I hope he doesn't take this the wrong way. But I know I can't approach this topic lightly, either. "Did you tell her about me?"

Maxon sighs, a long sigh that I recognize as his "oh-god-I-knew-this-was-coming" sigh. It makes me smile slightly, but I maintain my frustrated stare. "Ames, I'm sorry. I just . . she was so worried and scared . . . I didn't know what to do."

"What do you mean?" I ask, worried and scared myself. Was Celeste really concerned about me?

"Those first few nights, she kept asking me questions. Things like _why isn't Mommy putting me to bed? _and _why doesn't Mommy talk to me anymore. _And I couldn't bare to see her like that. She was so lost, Ames. She thought you hated her or something, or were mad. But she was too scared to talk to you," Maxon whispers. My heart aches at his words, and I suddenly feel like the worst mother in the world, probably because I am. "She told me the third night about how she felt, and I had to tell her. It was the only way. I didn't give her details; I just said that when you were 'sick,' your memories got a little messed up." _A little _was a pretty big understatement. "After that, she went back to normal. She thinks it's just a phase, Ames, that once you take some medicine you'll get better . . . I'm sorry. I just . . . I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her think you hated her," Maxon explains.

"She thought that?" I ask, still stunned at the idea.

"Yes, Ames." He smiles sadly, and I blink back tears. "She was crying over you."

I close my eyes and run my fingers through my hair, trying to calm myself down. The idea of that cute little girl - so innocent and young - crying over me and my stupid amnesia makes me dizzy. "I'm a terrible person," I whisper, realizing how much I messed up. How stupid am I to forget my own kids? What kind of mother does that make me? And then to pretend like I'm okay to my daughter? Feed her lies and act like I remember who she is?

"No, America, you're not. You're an incredible mother who was faced with a horrible task," Maxon says, steadying me with his strong arms, bracing my shoulders. He wipes away the stray tears on my cheek and kisses it softly, which (I'm embarrassed to admit) calms me significantly. "This is an impossibly tough situation. You did the best you could, and so did I. It's over. All we have to do is move on, right?"

I nod awkwardly, not really believing that solution.

"You _will _remember her, America. I know you will. Just give it some time. Everything will work out, okay?"

"Okay," I smile. And just like that, we've made up. We're not mad at each other, or confused, or hiding things from each other. We're on the same page, and we're looking up.

"Come on. I've got to go change before dinner," he smiles, kissing me gently before dragging me back to the bedroom.

* * *

**Okay that was a shitty chapter, I know. I just needed to write SOMETHING and I figured I haven't talked about the kids in a while. Did this chap even make sense? Sorry if it didn't. I just wanted to post something...Hopefully I'll have a somewhat decent chap up soon. Thanks for sticking around. **


	14. Chapter 13

**winterprincess: Thank you so much for the lovely review! But no, that was not hinting at _that. _It was just hinting at some romantic maxmerica time :)**

* * *

"Hey, Maxon?" I ask, peeking into his room. He's lying shirtless on his bed, flipping through a pile of papers. His face lights up as I enter and smiles energetically. That stupid, adorable smile. Butterflies tickle my stomach and I fight the urge to abandon my plan. Why is it that, with Aspen, things had felt so natural? But now with Maxon, I feel so jittery and nervous, despite the fact that we're married. It doesn't make sense.

"Yes, dear?" The nerves are jumbling inside of me and I take a deep breath, calming myself before stating what I came here for. Here goes.

"It's been almost a month since the accident, right? And I thought that since my memories have been coming back and we've been getting closer that maybe I should . . " Another deep breath. He cocks his eyebrow, questioning. "That maybe I could move back in. To the room, I mean."

"Oh," he says, obviously surprised.

Marlee told me that the King and Queen usually share his chambers. The only reason there _are _Queen's chambers are because, in the past, there have not been successful marriages. And I guess to give the rulers some space if they need it. But she said my chambers had practically gone untouched since we were married. Only after my accident did I start living there. But now . . .

"I just thought that it might, you know, help make things more normal?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Maxon agrees anxiously, standing up and meeting me by the door. In the dim lighting of his room, with just two lamps still on, he looks ridiculously sexy. His boxers hang low on his hips and his chest is impeccably chiseled. His skin, tan and warm, is almost glowing in the darkness. His velvet eyes are pouring into me, and I instinctively blush. "I can have the maids move your things here -"

"It's fine. Most of my stuff is here, anyway, right?" Maxon's expression is affirmation enough. "I only have some dresses and toiletries in the other room. I'll bring them over tomorrow."

I take his hand in mind and squeeze it tight. He looks down at it and an impish grin covers his face. "Wonderful," he whispers, kissing my hand gently. My cheeks are practically burning. "The kids are asleep?"

"Yes, _finally,_" I smile, remembering how Shal wouldn't stop crying. For the past few nights I've been putting the kids to bed, which has helped trigger a few bits of memory: Celeste's first birthday party, endless sleepless nighs, and a few various flashes of the kid's laughing faces.

"Wonderful," he repeats. I can't help it: I kiss him. I've been dying to do that the whole time, and the taste of his lips is worth the wait. He tastes like hot chocolate - I spot a mug on his desk - and ink. His arms snake around mine and run through my hair, puling at the pins Mary had placed so carefully. "Ames," he whispers against my lips and I struggle to breath. He pulls me over to the bed and pushes me down, my back colliding with the soft blankets. He's on top of me, covering me in kisses as he slowly peels off my clothes. His hands fiddle with the back of my dress and he curses at the buttons. "You know I hate buttons," he mutters and I can't help but laugh, though I do _not _remember his hatred for buttons. Still, I guide his hands around me and help him unsnap them. He slides the dress off my body and tosses it carelessly to the floor before kissing my chest delicately. "You're so beautiful," he whispers against my skin and I shiver.

This is the farthest I've gotten with Maxon since the accident. I know I should feel embarrassed and scared, but I don't. I feel . . . comfortable. This is natural. His skin is familiar against mine; I don't have to think as my hands run up and down his body. The lack of bashfulness I feel is just a reminder that I'm _his _and he's _mine _and we've been that way for five years. It makes me remember all that I've forgotten.

"Maxon," I gasp as my hands rake over his back, landing on a bit of raised skin. He doesn't seem to realize the worry in my voice, he just keeps kissing the length of my stomach. "Maxon . . . what is this?"

"What?" he murmurs, looking up and meeting my eyes. He senses my worry immediately and rises. His gaze follows my hand and his neck twists around to see where it lands. When he does, his lips make an _O. _"Ames . . ."

"What is this from, Maxon? Is it . . . it's a scar, right? Let me look," I say, shifting to get around, but he blocks me.

"America, no, it's nothing. It's not important just -" I push past him and he gives a sigh of surrender. I take in his back for the first (or probably hundredth, though I wouldn't remember) time. It's covered in very, _very _faint scars; red lines that run up and down his back. They must be from years ago, but they're still vaguely visible. But there's one running diagonally across his back that's slightly more prominent - the one I felt. It's old, too, but it looks like he might have gotten _stitching. _It's not a horrible scar, but it is definitely noticeable. And frightening.

"Maxon, what happened?" I whisper, though I fear I already answer. He turns around, ashamed, and avoids my eyes.

"America, please, I don't want to talk about this. Not now," he whispers, choking.

I want to agree - to forget about this and go on like it never happened. But I can't. The memories suddenly become clear in my mind. _Maxon kneeling in the safe room, covered in blood. Slash marks running up and down his back. The way he shook as I bandaged his wounds. _It all flashes before my eyes and I hold back tears. "I'm sorry," I whisper, unsure of what else to say. What do you tell your husband when you belatedly realize that his dead father had beat him, multiple times, because of you?

Yeah, not an easy question to answer.

"It's alright, America. It was a long time ago. I'm fine, alright? I don't want you to worry about it," he whispers, nuzzling my neck, trying to distract me. But it's impossible. My mind is fixed on that one scar.

"Was it because of me?"

"What?"

"The really bad scar. The one that's still healing," I murmur, my voice shaking. "It's because of me, isn't it?"

Maxon takes a deep breath and locks eyes with me, his face lined with worry. "Yes."

"When?"

"After I told him that I was choosing you."

I nod, figuring that was it. Still, that doesn't help it. _I _caused him this pain. _I _gave him these scars. "Maxon, I . . . I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, America," he whispers, clasping my hands in his. "You may not remember it, but we've talked about this before, and I'm okay. It's not your fault, alright? I made the choices and I accepted the punishments."

"Yes, but -"

"No buts, Ames. This conversation is over," he says in his King voice. I snap my mouth shut, afraid to trigger him. "I don't want to ruin this night."

I start to apologize but stop myself. Instead, I settle for, "Alright." I take his face gently in my hands and kiss him softly, conveying my apology without words, and I hope he understands.

He responds by wrapping his arms around me and laying me back down on the mattress.

* * *

**For those of you wondering: NO they do not have sex. That's . . . well, you'll see :) Sorry for a short chapter, but I hope you liked it. Thank you for the constant reviews! I really appreciate it! **


	15. Chapter 14

"Happy anniversary, my dear," Maxon whispers against my ear before kissing it. My eyes pop open at the sound of my voice, but it takes me a minute to register his words. Anniversary?

Oh, right. We're married

No matter how much time I spend with Maxon, and despite the fact that I've fallen in love with him, I still can't seem to grasp the fact that we're _married. _I guess it's because I haven't gotten any of those memories back yet. Just knowing we're married doesn't make it feel real.

"Anniversary?" I mumble, nuzzling his neck. "That's today?"

Maxon laughs, as if it's a joke. Which I guess that's how it would sound. "Yes, Ames. Five years to the day."

"More like five weeks to me," I mumble which makes him shake his head. "But, nonetheless, happy anniversary, Maxon." I smile up at him and kiss him gently. He tastes like toothpaste and I realize he must've been up for a while. I pull away and examine him. He's still in his boxers, but his hair is brushed back and his tan skin freshly washed. "How late is it?"

"About ten," he says, playing with my hair, which makes me roll my eyes.

"You let me sleep so late? Why? Maxon, I should've been up 4 hours ago!" I bolt upright, realizing that Marlee must be furious with me. I'm behind on my work as it is; losing a few hours will only put me farther back.

"Don't worry, Ames. No work for us today," he whispers, kissing my cheek.

"What, but do—"

"I'm free all day, America. As are you." His voice is mischievous, his lips forming a crooked smile.

"And . . ." I raise an eyebrow at him, curious.

"And we're taking a little trip." He pulls me into a sitting position and I look at him, confused.

"What about the kids?"

"May's taking care of them for the day."

"And all your meetings?"

"I canceled them."

I squint at him, examining his casual demeanor, and give in. "Where?"

Instead of answer, he goes over to his desk and pulls something out before tossing it at me. I catch it and hold up the small piece of fabric. "What's this?"

"A swimsuit."

"Yes, I realize that," I laugh, examining the tiny blue bikini. It's very simple, just my style, but definitely not something a _queen _would wear. "But why?"

"I told you; we're taking a trip," Maxon smiles, already heading to his closet and sifting through it for his own swimsuit. "So get dressed. I already packed your bag." He gestures to a big beach bag waiting at the door, stuffed with towels and sunglasses and books. I smile as I realize where we're going and laugh as I head to the bathroom to change.

I brush my teeth and hair, wash my face and dab on a bit of makeup. I put on the slinky bikini, which I have to admit fits me perfectly. I wonder if Maxon recently asked Mary to make it, or if I've worn it before. Maybe it's my favorite swimsuit. I wouldn't know.

When I come out of the bathroom, Maxon's wearing floral trunks and a loose t-shirt. I've never seen him dressed so casually, and I can't help but laugh. He looks over at me and a wide grin spreads across his face. A very, very sexy grin.

"You look irresistible," he whispers and I instantly blush, though I subconsciously roll my eyes. I cross over to my own closet and shift through it, looking for something to wear over this. Maxon's already got it covered. "Here, your majesty," he smiles, holding up a simple green sundress. I shrug it on and look at him expectantly. "Ready?"

"I guess so," I sigh, following him out the door, beach bag in hand.

* * *

A guard opens the car door for me and lends me a hand as I step out. "Thank you," I nod, wishing I remembered his name, but drawing a blank. He bows slightly as Maxon joins my side.

"So, what do you think?" he asks, slipping his hand over mine. I look out at the beautiful beach in front of me: pale, hot sand and endless, blue waves. The beach is private, just for us. The thought makes me smile.

"It looks great," I reply. Maxon grins and it's contagious.

"Your Majesties, our guards will be placed around the perimeter of the beach," one of the officers - Markham? Markson? - reports. "Will that be sufficient, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," Maxon says as another guard hands him our bag. He then leads me onto the burning sand, making me grateful for my shoes, and towards the shore. I look behind and find the guards spreading out in a vague semicircle around us, though they give us a good amount of distance.

"Being surrounded by guards kind of kills the mood, don't you think?" I laugh as he stops just feet away from the water, pulling towels out of the bag and laying them down, creating a makeshift blanket of sorts.

"Trust me, they hate watching us as much as we hate it," Maxon replies, smoothing out the towels.

"They hate it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Not their job, Ames. They like being guards. But they hate having to intrude on these kind of events. It makes them uncomfortable as well," Maxon laughs. I'm suddenly grateful that Aspen isn't one of the guards here; that would have made things even worse.

"Then why are they here?" I complain, though I know the guards are a necessity - unless we're hoping to die, that is.

Maxon doesn't answer; he just shakes his head and strips off his shirt. I watch him and marvel at his beautifully shaped chest. He comes over to me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close. I move my gaze up to meet his and he smiles. "Come on, America. Forget about the guards. Let's just enjoy this day," he whispers, kissing my cheek ever so gently. His hands find the hem of my dress and he starts pulling it off. I help him, wiggling out of the fabric until it's thrown onto the sand. He kisses me softly on the lips before tugging me into the water.

I shriek as the cold liquid hits my legs, but Maxon seems immune to the temperature. He plunges forward, diving into the ocean without a second glance. I take my time, easing myself in until the water hits my waist. Maxon, already twenty feet away, swims back to me. His head pops up out of the water, his light hair plastered to his forehead. I laugh and brush it back so that I can see him more clearly. He smiles and drops of water shake off of his lips. "Scared, my dear?"

"No," I defend, batting his hand away as he tries to hold me. "I'm just taking my time, that's all." He sees right through my lie and grabs my wrist, pulling me under the water with him. I gasp, shocked, but quickly realize that opening my mouth will only lead to drowning. I snap it shut and blindly swim upwards. I resurface gasping and rub at my eyes, anxious to get the salt water out. Maxon comes up beside him, looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry, Ames, I didn'-"

I stop him by jumping onto him, weighing him down so that he sinks below the surface. I circle his waist with my legs and cling onto him as he struggles to swim upwards. I smile at him, victorious, before separating myself to give him some air.

He takes a few heavy breathes, though he's smiling. "You're rather devious, aren't you?" he smirks, eyeing me suspiciously. I shrug my shoulders innocently and back up.

"I'm just making things even." He dives towards me, hands extended and I duck, narrowly missing his reaching hands. He floats over me and we dance around each other, both trying to entrap the other. I reach for his arm, but he pulls it away too quickly and hooks it around my waist. I try to wiggle free but he's too strong, now using both hands to trap me there. I lock eyes with him underwater, his brown eyes somewhat vibrant in the pale, blue water.

His lips are against mine before I know it. He's kissing me hard, passion radiating off of him like steam. I swing my legs around his waist and urge his mouth wider. He submits, allowing me to take control of the kiss, showing him just how even the score is.

When we both need air, we resurface for only a split second before diving back under. Maxon pulls me to the shallower part, pinning me against the rocky floor of the ocean and kissing me harshly. I moan against his lips as his hands roam my body, my skin burning up and body feeling numb. Our kiss is the only thing that sustains our breath, and I don't dare pull away. I kiss him fiercely, hungry for him, as a memory pops into my mind.

_We're in the ocean, arms circled around each other. Maxon kisses me softly, just under the ear. "I love you, America Singer." I pull away from him, just for a second, and lock eyes with him. "It's America _Schreave _now, remember?" I smirk, kissing him back. The sky is pink and the clouds are purple. It's getting late; Maxon leads me out of the water and to the tiny cabin sitting on the shore. We spend the night in the cabin, loving each other, and wake up to a golden sunrise and another day of relaxing on the shore._

I gasp and immediately bolt upwards, struggling to catch my breath. Maxon comes up just seconds after, looking at me with worry and confusion. I can't seem to think straight; my mind is spinning. More memories - similar ones, of days on the beach with Maxon - rise in my mind and I feel so overwhelmed. Maxon seems to understand my worry; he scoops me up and carries me to the shore, laying me gently down on the bed of towels. He pulls yet another towel from the bag and drapes it around my shoulders. I cling to it, suddenly freezing.

One of the guards runs towards us, obviously alert. Maxon shoos him away, though, realizing that I'm not in pain or anything. I'm just remembering.

"Ames," he whispers after a second, squeezing my hand. "Are you okay?" I nod hesitantly, still trying to process the wave of memories that have returned. They're all jumbled up together, a mess of water and sand and sky. "Do you want to tell me what you remembered?"

I feel like a little kid being coaxed by their parent to retell a nightmare. But this isn't a nightmare - this is a fantasy.

"We were here," I start, sorting through the vision as I speak. "Well, not _here _exactly. But we were on a beach, swimming. And there was a cabin and . . . and we were . . . Maxon, I . . ."

"Shhh," he whispers, wrapping me up in his arms. I lean against him gratefully, breathing in his familiar scent. "That was our honeymoon, Ames," he explains, his voice so soft I have to quiet my breathing to listen. "We stayed at a beach for a week, just you and I. That's why I brought you here for our anniversary."

"Oh," I whisper, realizing the memories now make more sense. I still don't remember the wedding - or anything leading up to the honeymoon at all. I just remember lying on the sand with Maxon, kissing him, whispering little promises to him as the sun sank behind us. "I'm sorry that I . . . that I remembered like that. I didn't mean to ruin the moment."

"Ames, don't apologize," Maxon says, kissing the top of my head, wet hair and all. "You didn't ruin anything."

He holds me for a long time, just letting me calm down and breathe and remember. "I love you, Maxon," I whisper. I can practically hear his eyes widen, his lips part. He's quiet for a moment.

"That's the first time you've said that since . . ."

"I know," I whisper, sinking into him so that my head is just under his chin. His fingers curl around mine. "But I know now, Maxon. I know that, even if I never get all of my memories back, I'll still love you. I don't have to have the past 6 years to realize that. These past few months, though . . . that was all I need. I love you, Maxon. I love you, I love you, I love you," I smile. He kisses the top of my head, speechless.

We sit there for a long time, curled against each other, and watch as the sky turns pink and our anniversary ends.


	16. Chapter 15

It's Maxon's birthday tonight, and there's going to a ball.

A freaking ball.

The idea makes me laugh, as I'd never dreamed of going to any sort of dance when I was younger. I knew it was impossible because of my caste. But now, 6 years later, I'm about to be hosting one of the largest gatherings of the year.

Marlee reassures me that it'll be fine; that, even if I don't remember the other 132 or so parties, instinct will kick in and I'll be alright. But I'm not so sure. There will be hundreds of guest, guests who I probably won't recognize let alone be able to converse with. And then there's the fact that I'll have to _dance, _which Lucy warns me might be troublesome. I decide to stay away from dancing as much as possible.

Mary and Paige help me get ready, lacing me up in a dress so tight I can barely breathe. When I tell Mary so, she loosens the dress, though I still find I'm suffocating - belatedly discovering that it's my nerves, and not the dress, that is holding my breathe. "How would you like your hair, Your Majesty?" Mary asks, formal despite my insistence that she call me by my first name.

"I don't know. Up, I guess. That's regal, right?" I laugh. This is my first big public appearance since the accident. I don't want to appear any different from before. "What do I normally do?"

"Up," Paige smiles, grabbing the brush. I nod as she combs my hair before carefully twisting it into a delicate bun. Mary then heads to the glass casing by the window, the one that holds my crown, and removes it carefully.

"Oh, no, Mary I don-"

"You have to, America," Paige says, fixing a few stray strands.

"But what if I break it? Or it falls off? Or what-"

"Nonsense, Your Majesty," Mary smiles, placing it gently on my head. It feels awkward at first, like it doesn't belong. But it also feels right, like it's just an extension of me. "You must always wear it to these events. Plus, the King adores you in it." That's the strangest thing I've heard Mary say, and I can't help but laugh. Paige does, too, and soon we're all giggling. A knock at the door startles us all into silence. Mary heads over and opens it.

Aspen's standing at the door, ready to escort me. Usually Maxon would - or so I'm told - but he's supposed to enter the party later. "Wow, Mer . . . you look stunning," he says, admiring my dress. It's a long, form-fitting, emerald-green dress that clings to my body. It's simple and elegant, very sophisticated.

"As do you," I roll my eyes. He's in his regular guard uniform, everything about him the same as always.

"Ready?" he smiles, holding out his arm. I link mine in his and wave the girls goodbye as Aspen leads me down the hall. "Do you think you'll survive the night?"

"Ha, ha, very funny," I sneer, nudging him in the side. He pretends to be in pain before covering his face with a smile once again.

"You'll be fine, Mer. I promise. It's just a few hours of mindless conversations; no need to freak out," Aspen reassures me as we head downstairs. I'm careful to take small steps, afraid that I'll trip.

"I'm not freaking out . . . I'm just . . . I don't want to embarrass myself, that's all." I take a deep breathe as we reach the long corridor that leads to the ballroom. Various voices and melodious music drift through the air. The sound of someone playing a violin calms me a bit. "I don't have to make any sort of announcement, right? Or, like, get introduced?" I check, remembering various movies with royals making lonely walks down staircases while the crowd watched. The thought makes me shudder.

"No, Mer. That's not how things work," he laughs. "You'll be great." He kisses my forehead gently. "If anything goes wrong, there's a hundred people her for you. Me, Lucy, Marlee, Maxon . . . everyone, okay?"

I nod and he gestures to another guard, who opens the door after a quick bow.

The sight of the ballroom makes me stop in place. There are hundreds of people - maybe even _thousands _- gathered inside, all dressed in regal outfits and expensive jewelry. People are dancing, eating, laughing, talking. And I'm just standing here, gawking, feeling like I'm going to puke.

"America! Come over here!" somebody calls before I get the chance to find the nearest trash can. Aspen winks a goodbye and heads over to presumably find Lucy. I find a body to match the voice: May's running over to me - in heels, I might add - with the excitement of a little kid. Trailing behind her is a man, roughly her age, dressed in a pale suit. He has jet black hair and bright blue eyes, and his face is dotted in tiny freckles.

When I reach them, May hastily gives me a hug. "Oh, Ames, you look beautiful," she whispers into my chest as she squeezes the air out of me.

"So do you, May," I smile, looking at her gorgeous red dress. "And who is this?" I ask, turning to the young man who looks like he's also about to vomit. Great.

"Your Majesty," he says, bowing deeply before meeting my eyes. "My name is Daniel Canters."

"Have we met before or . . . ?" I ask, cringing as I do so. Saying things like that makes my amnesia ten billion times more noticeable.

"No, you haven't," May answers for him, squeezing my hand in a calming gesture.

"Well, then, it's lovely to meet you, Mr. Canters," I reply, uncomfortable. What am I supposed to say?

"Please, call me Daniel, Your Majesty," he smirks.

"Only if you call me America," I say, squinting. At first he looks scared, but when May and I both start laughing, he breaks into a grin.

"Ames, I wanted you to meet Daniel because, um," May starts, shifting her eyes awkwardly. "Because, um, he's my, well-"

"I'm her boyfriend, Your Ma- America," Daniel interjects, quite bravely.

"Oh," I gasp, feeling stupid for not having noticed it. May has always been boy-crazy; it was only a matter of time before she actually started dating. I guess I just didn't realize how soon that would be. I want to say _But you're so young, _until I realize she's not 14 anymore. She's 20. She's probably had a few other boyfriends by now, maybe even some serious relationships. "Well . . . that's wonderful," I muster, trying not to show my feelings.

Although I can tell May senses my discomfort, she plays along. We'll talk privately later. "We started dating three months ago. I would have introduced you sooner but . . . you know." Things get awkward for a minute and I worry that it's my fault. May covers. "Daniel's a painter, too."

"Really? That's great," I say. "How did you too meet?"

"At an art class," Daniel smiles, taking May's hand. "She walked in and I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful girl in the world."

"And then he recognized me and wouldn't talk to me for a month."

"I was scared! You're the Queen's sister - you're kind of intimidating," Daniel defends. That makes me laugh, as I consider myself anything _but_ intimidating.

"Yeah, but I -" the two continue for a bit longer, describing their first encounters hysterically. Apparently Daniel was too shy to even talk to May, so she asked him out instead.

"Well, I'm glad that you're both happy. I'll hopefully see you later," I wish them goodbye as I head off in another direction, towards a group of strangers gesturing for me to come over.

I try to remember all of their names and fail miserably, but it seem as if they've all been briefed about my incident. I realize I never even thought about what the public might know - do they know I have amnesia or do they just think I'm sick? Do they even _know _there was an accident? From the way these strangers introduce themselves and talk very carefully, I can assume that the news is widely known.

I mingle with foreigners and supposed "old friends." I dance with various ambassadors and generals, as well as a few of Maxon's relatives. I surprisingly don't trip; my muscle memory saves me and I dance rather well. I dance with Celeste for a short while, which gets a few laughs, before she tires of it and heads off to play with Kile. And then finally, _finally, _Maxon enters.

I practically run to him, anxious to escape the repetitive conversations and endless questions. The crowd roars, calling out "Happy Birthday" as he waves at the guests. "Happy birthday, Maxon," I whisper when I reach him, pulling him in for a slow, gentle kiss. He smiles against my lips before pulling away to look at me. He mouths a silent "wow" and I watch as his eyes widen with love. I instinctively blush, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

"Come on," Maxon smiles, twining his fingers through mine. "Let's dance."

* * *

**Hey guys. I know this chapter was very short, but the next chapter is the final chapter so I promise it will be extra long. There may be an epilogue, but I'm not positive yet. However, I have tech week (for those of you who don't know what that is: the final week of rehearsals before a show, in which you rehearse till 11 or 12 each night) in addition to school, so I won't be able to update until next weekend _at the earliest. _I want to get this chapter up asap, but this week will be crazy, so I apologize for that. Thank you for being such amazing readers! I'm sad this is coming to a close, but I think you'll like the ending :)**

**P.S. Who's excited for The Heir?**


	17. Chapter 16

Dancing with Maxon is like playing the violin.

It's slow and careful, focused yet natural. We move gracefully, quietly, pressed against each other as the crowd swells around us. Our movements are small but effective; a single step and we've switched places. His arms around me are like a safety net, ensuring that even in my clumsiest moments I won't fall.

"I should probably go greet some people," Maxon remarks as he twirls me around, the music growing louder.

"Yes, you probably should."

"But I don't want to."

"Neither do I," I smile, kissing his cheek quickly. We've been dancing for nearly an hour; by now, Maxon should have talked to many of the guests. But he's been stalling, dancing with me rather than playing the host.

"But it looks like I'll have to," Maxon murmurs, stopping mid-step. I follow his gaze and find a very pretty girl approaching us. She is wearing a long, maroon dress and her dark hair is slicked back in a tight bun.

"Maxon! It's so good to see you," the woman says, brushing past me and hugging him. "I hope you're having a wonderful birthday." She speaks with a heavy accent, though I can't exactly place it.

"Thank you, Louisa. I'm glad you could make it," Maxon says formally.

"I don't want to burden you on your birthday, but we really must speak of our trading policies soon," she starts. Maxon gives me an apologetic nod - no rest for the King, even on his birthday - and I wink at him before heading away.

I bump into Aspen and Lucy, who are chatting with an unfamiliar couple. "Oops, sorry," I say, taking a step back.

"You alright, Mer?" Aspen asks, looking at my confused face.

"Yeah, I'm fine . . . " I smile before heading away, looking for someone I know.

I end up spending the next hour or so with Marlee, as Carter's occupied with some business matters. She helps me recount the various names of guests, and even reminds me of my opinions of them, which makes me laugh. Apparently I hate about half of them, they're all "rich, spoiled snobs" to quote my past self exactly. She points out some semi-familiar faces, too. Elise Whisks, one of the girls from my Selection, who is talking hastily with a group of girls. She makes no effort to acknowledge me, which is fine. And Daphne, the current Princess of France, who looks ridiculously beautiful in her long, black dress. Kriss Ambers, who I spoke with earlier, is dancing with her apparent husband. She seems sweet, and Marlee assures me that we were kind to each other during the selection. "Stay away from him," Marlee notes, pointing to a strange looking man. "Total creep. Oh, and she's not someone you want to get involved with."

She goes on and on, pointing out my friends and my enemies, all the while making me laugh. The more she speaks, the clearer my memories become. I remember these faces, random bits of conversations and various different meetings with some of them. As the time passes, I feel like I know almost everybody in this room.

"Excuse me, ladies," somebody says, interrupting Marlee's description of a short man dancing like an animal. I look up and find Maxon standing to my left, his hand outstretched. "If you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with my wife, Lady Woodwork."

"Of course," Marlee laughs, giving me a quick hug goodbye before vanishing into the crowd.

"How was your talk with what's-her-face?" I ask as his arms curl around me.

"Boring, of course. As was every other conversation I had."

"Did you have any fun?" I ask, feeling bad that he's had to deal with business during his own party.

"Well, I did enjoy dancing with you," he whispers before kissing me gingerly on the nose.

"As did I," I laugh, covering his lips with my hand so I can finish my though. He rolls his eyes. "We can dance some more, if you want."

"Actually, I'm quite tired of dancing. I was thinking I'd head upstairs early tonight."

"But there's so many people, and it's barely even ni-"

"I'm very tired, Ames. The party can continue without me. You realize that none of these people actually came for _me." _I can't argue with that. "Besides, this isn't much of a party, is it?" I stay silent, not really sure what he's hinting at. But the look in his eyes and his mischievous grin tell me he's definitely hinting at _something. _"Some alone time in the bedroom seems much more appealing."

Oh.

_Oh. _

"Maxon, I . . . "

"I'm just teasing you, Ames," he whispers, smiling in an understanding way. "We don't have to do anything tonight."

"No, Maxon. I was going to . . . Shit." I realize that I have no idea how to say this. I take a deep breath and look him in the eyes, willing away all fears of embarrassment. "I wasn't going to tell you no, Maxon. I was going to say that . . . that I'd love that."

The way his face lights up leaves me blushing, and we can't get away from the crowd fast enough.

"Your Majesties!" a guard calls as we exit the ballroom, Maxon dragging me along like a little kid.

"If anyone asks, we've retired for the night. Stomach ache. Officer Leger is in charge," he calls back, not even bothering to stop. I twist my head around and catch the uncomfortable expression on the guard's face. I can't help but laugh, which only makes Maxon smile deviously as he guides me up the stairway.

"Maxon, slow down!" I call out, stumbling in my heels. Rather than do as I say, he simply stops where he is and scoops me up in his arms. "Put me down!"

"If you can't keep up, I'll just have to carry you," Maxon winks as he rushes down the hall.

"That's not fair!"

"King's orders."

I roll my eyes despite the fact that I secretly love being carried by him. His arms are so comforting and familiar. They're safe.

When we reach the doors to our room, the two guards open them without a word, though I can see the smiles on their faces. The doors shut soundlessly behind us as Maxon drops me down on the bed. He climbs on top of me and starts kissing me feverishly, heat radiating off his touch. "Won't the guards hear us?" I ask, suddenly aware that nothing in this palace is private.

"They're sworn to secrecy," he smiles, kissing my ear and making his way down my neck. "Plus, it's nothing new."

That makes my eyes snap open. Obviously I know we've had sex before - after all, we have two kids - but it still hasn't hit me yet. I mean, I don't ever remember it, so it seems like a dream. This time - even if it's my hundredth - seems like my _first _time. And that kind of terrifies me.

"Maxon," I whisper as his hand search my back for the ribbon that laces my dress together. His hands lock on it but they freeze. He meets my eyes.

His are sympathetic and calming, full of love and compassion. "It's okay, Ames. We don't have to if you don't want to," he says, moving his hand from my back to my cheek, cupping it delicately.

"But I said downstairs that I -"

"I know, but it's okay. I'm not going to hold that against you. I want you to be ready, America. I don't want to rush this."

"But it's not that," I whisper, tears pricking my eyes. "I want you, Maxon. I love you; I know I do. And I want to be with you completely. I know I'm ready for it. I just . . . I don't know what I'm doing. This all seems so new to me even if it technically isn't."

"I know," he whispers, his voice a blanket that warms my ice-cold fears. "We can wait, Ames."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I'm done waiting, Maxon. I'm done being afraid of this, afraid of loving you." I grab him hard and push my lips against his, digging my fingers into his hair and wrapping my legs around him. He's shocked at first - he gasps before sinking into the kiss, opening his mouth wider and letting me in. His hands roam my back once again and find the stupid ribbon. He pulls at it relentlessly as I kiss him harder, more passionately, aching for him. My fear has vanished; I know that this is what's right.

I feel my dress grow looser as he unlaces it, and I sigh in relief. The dress _was _rather constricting after all. His hands hastily pull the dress over my head as I wriggle out of it, anxious to get rid of the fabric barrier. Before I can even think, my hands are his shirt, unbuttoning faster than I'd ever imagined possible. He rips off his suit jacket for me and tosses it to the ground as I reach the last button. He shrugs of his shirt, too, exposing his perfectly tanned chest. I kiss it quickly before moving my hands to the waist band of his pants. Maxon goes up on his knees to give me better access. His lips caress the side of my neck as I fumble with the zipper. I pul his belt out and chuck it behind me, then help maneuver his legs out of his pants.

Finally, our skin is pressed agains each other, with only our undergarments separating us. I know I should feel embarrassed - I've never been this exposed in front of anyone before - but I feel natural. I feel like this is how it's supposed to be - just Maxon and I, our bare skin touching, our mouths devouring each other without even caring about how they other person's body looks.

He lays me back down, kissing me the whole time, as his hands unhook my bra. He waits for my consent, to which I nod unashamedly, before pulling it off. Exposed in front of him, I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. But he doesn't even look down. His eyes stay locked on mine the entire time, just further proof of his love for me. I kiss him lightly on the cheek before giving him another small nod. I take in a deep breath as his hands move downwards, pulling gently at the hem of my underwear. I close my eyes, afraid to meet his, as he pulls them off. When I open my eyes, his are still there - they never even moved. "It's okay, America. You're okay," he whispers, stroking my cheek gently. I hadn't realized I was crying until his fingers come away wet.

I nod again. "I know," I murmur, scared that if I talk any louder, my voice will crack. He takes my hands - his eyes never breaking their gaze - and guides them down to the hem of his boxers. He kisses me gently on the forehead, silently reassuring me I'm okay. I pull them down and he kicks them off, and then we're finally together.

"I love you, America," he kisses my chest, my neck, my ear. A moan escapes my lips and I reach out and grab his head, pulling him towards me. I kiss him so intensely that I'm surprised by my own passion. I tangle my legs around him and he holds me tighter. I cling to him as he kisses my face, whispering words of affection as he does so. "I love you, America. I always will," he says and I find that my hand is subconsciously holding his earlobe, tugging at it gently. He does the same to mine, pulling lightly on my ear, and another burst of tears escapes.

"I love you, too, Maxon," I reply, pressing my forehead against his as my body grows hot and my head goes dizzy. "And I remember you. I remember you, Maxon."

And I do. I remember it all.

* * *

**AHHHHH! It's over! There will be an epilogue, but that will be more of a just here's-what-happened-after kind of thing. I'm really awkward about writing sex scenes - as I don't like it to be graphic but I still want to get the point across - so sorry if this was complete shit. But I tried! I hope you liked it. I'll post the epilogue by the end of the week. Thanks for reading! You guys are the best :) **


	18. Epilogue

**Fifteen Years Later**

"Mom?" someone says, waking me from my sleep. I open my eyes and squint at the small slit of light coming from the door. Celeste peeks her head in, her eyes wide and nervous.

"Yes, honey?" I mumble, yawning in the process. I stretch and sit on, flipping on my bedside lamp. Celeste takes that as an invitation and walks up beside me, sitting down on the bed when I prompt her to. "What's wrong?"

"I'm scared, Mom. I . . . I don't know if I can do this," she admits, dropping her chin to her chest.

I wrap my arms around her and gently rub her back, resting my head on top of hers. "Oh, honey, there's nothing to be scared of. You're going to be fine."

"But what if I . . . I don't know, mess up or something? What if I trip and fall in front of everyone? Or say the wrong thing? Or what would happen if I— "

"Shhh," I whisper, kissing the top of her head gently. "You know, when I was in the Selection, messed up a hundred times. I said all sorts of horrible things on TV; I embarrassed myself a hundred ties and look where that got me."

"Yeah, but that's 'cause Dad loved you."

"Somebody will love you, too, you know."

"What's going on?" Maxon says groggily, sitting up and yawning, squinting at the lamp behind me. "Cellie? What are you doing up? It's . . . 3 in the morning!" he says, slightly started. I roll my eyes at him.

"Celeste is just a little nervous about tomorrow."

"No, I—" she starts, obviously embarrassed. Celeste has always been shy when it comes to talking to her father. She's so eager to fill his shoes, to please him and make a good Queen. Whenever she's nervous about something, she hides it from Maxon as long as possible.

"You're going to be fine, dear," Maxon says, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't call me that," she grumbles. _Like mother like daughter, _I think, smirking.

"What are you worried about exactly?" Maxon asks, looking our daughter in the eye. The whites of her eyes seem to glow in the dark.

"I just . . . what if none of them like me," she whispers, avoiding his gaze. I take her hand gently in mine and give it a squeeze.

"I thought the same thing when I was your age," Maxon starts. "I thought I'd walk in that room and find 35 girls who hated me. Instead, I only found one," he winks at me and I can't help but laugh.

"I didn't _hate _you!" I defend. "I just didn't want to be in the competition, that's

all."

"No, you hated me."

"That's not how I remember it."

"But can we really trust your memory, Mom?" Celeste asks, narrowing her eyes at me. I swat her away. Ever since the accident – which seems like forever ago – it's been a running joke in the family (hell, the whole country) that my memory can't be trusted. Which I guess is kind of true. After a few months, my memory came back nearly completely, but the details are still fuzzy. I can't remember tiny events, miscellaneous fact. I only remember the big stuff, the important things.

"True, but I _do _remember that day. And I did not hate your father," I say, giving her an intimidating stare. "I just . . . strongly disliked him."

"It was a total turn on," Maxon says, wrapping his arm around me.

"Ew!" Celeste says, shaking her head. I laugh at that, and Maxon swallows a chuckle.

"Anyway," I say, getting us back on track. "There were plenty of girls that loved your father; nearly all of them in fact."

"But what if . . . what if I don't love any of _them_?"

"Then we'll find someone else."

This gets both of their attention. _"What?!_"

"If none of the boys in your Selection are the right match, we'll find someone else."

"You can do that?" she asks, hope filling her face.

I look at Maxon, forcing him to give her an answer. She won't take me seriously if I say this. "Umm, yes, we can. We _are _the King and Queen, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but there are rules, right? It's a tradition. I can't just . . . break it!"

"Honey," I say, grabbing her hands in mine and looking into her eyes. My heart flutters as I remember the day I first saw those eyes (yes, I now remember her birth). It's crazy to think that she's grown up this fast. "We want you to be happy. If no one in the Selection is right for you, then we'll keep trying. You don't have to marry someone you don't love."

She nods slightly and I belatedly notice a tear running down her cheek.

"Don't cry, Cellie," Maxon says, looking at me nervously. I give him a slight grin. "It will be fine."

"It's not that," she whispers. "I just . . . I want to find what you two have. I want a real love. A true love."

I take a deep breath and kiss her forehead. "You will, honey. I promise." She nods and sniffs. "Now, go back to bed. You have a long day tomorrow and you need your sleep."

"Yeah . . . thanks, Mom. Dad," she says, climbing out of bed and shutting the door behind her.

Maxon looks at me and I can't help but frown. "I feel horrible."

"Why? You handled it just fine, dear."

"Yeah, but . . . This whole time she's been worried about her Selection because of _us. _Because she's scared she won't find what we have. We gave her too high expectations."

"Can you blame us?" he says, nipping at my neck. "I don't exactly regret falling madly in love with you."

I brush him off, fighting the blush that's rising in my cheeks. "Neither do I," I laugh. "But what if . . . what if . . ." I can't dare say it.

"She'll find someone. I know she will." I take a deep breath and nod as Maxon pulls me back down against the bed. He reaches over and flicks off my lamp before gathering me into his arms. He kisses the back of my head gingerly. "Celeste will be fine. She'll fall in love, just like we did. She'll get married and be happy and be the best Queen Illéa has seen." I raise my eyebrows. "Besides you of course. Now come on. We have a big day tomorrow, too."

He kisses me again and I snuggle against him. I close my eyes and remember our Selection so many years ago. And I remember everything that Maxon and I did together, all the tiny moments that made me fall more and more in love with him. And I fall asleep in his arms, remembering the one. Remembering Maxon and praying that our daughter finds her own love.

* * *

**I'll admit: this was not the best ending. I don't think this story called for an epilogue, but a bunch of people asked for it so I hope it's alright. I'd like to thank each and every one of you for reading and review this story (as well as my other selection fics), especially the people who message me after every chapter (you know who you are!). You're all so sweet.**

Unfortunately, as some people have asked, I will not be writing a sequel to this. However, I plan on writing a few more Maxerica one-shots, so keep a look out for those.  


**Thanks! **


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